A Pirate's Boy
by InkPoisoning
Summary: "Now Jackie boy, every good pirate is quietly a noble, honest man. The trick is to keep that respectableness a secret." Like any six-year-old boy, he wants to be like dear old Da. Learning to be a pirate, however, is proving more difficult than expected.
1. When I Grow Up

**A Pirate's Boy**

Chapter One- When I Grow Up

_Author's Note- Just in case there was any confusion, no, I am not Walt Disney. Therefore I do not own any of the concentrated awesome that is Pirates of the Caribbean. Phew, glad I got that off my chest... :]_

__Hello everyone; this is the author from the future. I have recently reread the entirety of my much-neglected story, and feel categorically ashamed. To any new readers, please note that the first five chapters of the following fic are inexcusably horrible-yet as I am far too lazy to be bothered to rewrite the first half, I hope you will accept my sincerest apologies. Bear in mind that the story only becomes sufferable around the sixth chapter, and that it only becomes _good _around the eighth. Thank you for your time, and kindly disregard the coming bad writing and uncharacteristic hand-holding. I now realize that Teague would never hold hands. With anybody.

Carry on.

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><p>It was nearly midnight when a fatigued man set foot in a small house holding a sleeping child in his arms. The older man smiled to himself, marveling at how such a young boy could have caused so much trouble. <em>Takes after his da, I s'pose. <em>Teague quietly crossed the hall to deposit his son in the small bedroom. After a whispered good-night to his boy, the exhausted pirate shuffled to his own room before promptly collapsing onto the small, yet soft, bed without bothering to remove the boots, hat, or several pistols from his person.

As the thief began to drift into unconsciousness, he heard the sound of stocking-clad feet making their way down the less-than-magnificent hallway. The footsteps came to an abrupt halt when they neared the bedside. Teague opened his eyes to the sight of his wife, Rosalynn, smirking at him in a triumphant sort of way. The weary man groaned before closing his eyes once more.

"How did it go?" she asked, clearly delighted at Teague's frustration. Her husband cast an exasperated glance towards the woman in response. Her grin widened as she sat down next to the pirate's dejected form. Teague mumbled something unintelligible before concealing his face in a convenient pillow. Rosalynn took one of the gnarled hands in her own as she quietly persuaded her husband to depict what had happened during his latest adventure. Slowly removing the pillow, Teague sighed as he looked into his wife's face. Exhaling deeply, he began to recount the happenings of the month prior.

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><p>"Aw, come on, Rosie! I swear on the ghost of me great-grandaddy that I would never, under any circumstances, let anything happen to Jackie!"<p>

Rosalynn glared skeptically at her husband's hopeful face. Ever since Jack had disclosed to his father that he hoped to become a pirate, Teague had been insistent upon taking Jack aboard his own ship. After all, Teague had debated, who would be more suitable for the job of instructing Jack than a real, live murderer? Rosalynn however, for some incomprehensible reason, had been heedful of teaching their son the ways of a criminal. "I've told you, Teague. You can barely take care of yourself! Look at this!" The distraught woman grabbed the pirate's arm, pointing to a recently acquired bullet wound.

Teague yelped and snatched his arm away, gathering it up in a distinctly lady-like manner. "That was _Singapore_, love. I wouldn't dream of bringing Jackie to _Singapore! _Please, Rosie. We'll just be out for a few days around the Caribbean, maybe visit Tortuga-"

At the mention of the pirate infested town, Rosalynn whipped her head around sharply. Teague cringed as he realized that he had said exactly the wrong thing.

"Tortuga? Bring our Jackie to _Tortuga?"_ the upset mother shrieked, "Edward Teague! You... You... Ugh!" She scowled at her husband once more before turning abruptly to leave. Teague laid a reassuring hand on his wife's shoulder.

"Rosie, I'm sorry. We won't go to Tortuga. I just..."

Rosalynn looked up into the pirate's eyes. _Oh no. He's giving me that face, oh no, oh no... _The woman looked desperately around for something, _anything_ to distract her from her husband's sorrowful gaze. His brown eyes, embedded in scars and wind-weathered skin, seemed to look straight into the back of her skull. The well-renowned criminal, guilty of thievery, cheating, and murder, looked at his wife with such pitiful helplessness that she finally admitted defeat.

Sighing, Rosalynn looked back at the man and mumbled dejectedly, "Alright."

The seemingly insignificant word had scarcely left her lips before Teague gave a victorious whoop as he enveloped her in an uncomfortable, affectionate hug. "Ah, Rosie! Don't worry about a thing, love. Jackie'll be among the noblest thieves and villians that've ever sailed!"

Rosalynn groaned into Teague's chest, yet she couldn't suppress the smile that tugged at her lips.

Teague finally released the poor woman when her lungs began to protest the lack of oxygen, and joyfully declared that he was going to tell Jackie the good news. As the murderer skipped out of the door, Rosalynn chuckled to herself. _Perhaps it wasn't Jack that I should have been worried about..._

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><p>Jack Sparrow smiled as the sea breeze played with his hair as he stood on the docks, staring out at the miles and miles of ocean that lay before him. A young lad of six years old, Jack was all but bursting with anticipation at the prospect of sailing with his father. Teague glanced down at his son, who was shaking with excitement. His mother, who, although had remained hesitant towards the situation at large, had proclaimed that if Jack was going to become a pirate, he may as well look like one. After a great deal of fuss, the criminal's son looked similar if not entirely like his father by the conclusion of his mother's well-meaning frenzy. Miniature boots, vest, and belt adorned the small boy. The overall effect was culminated by a pistol and dagger, lovingly bestowed upon him by his father, while Rosalynn had been preoccupied, of course.<p>

"See here, Jackie? This here's the _Misty Lady. _Finest ship that ever set sail, aye?" Teague said with a slightly dreamy tone to his voice.

Jack tilted his head to take in the entire scene. It _was_ beautiful. The child seemed to absorb the sight of the gleaming wood of the rails, the powerful strength of the masts, the intricate designs of the hull. Amongst the majestic carvings and sheer mass of the vessel before him, one feature out of all others caught the boy's eye. A tattered black flag, embellished with a merry-looking skeleton holding a speared heart in hand, had been hoisted among the sails for the occasion of the captain's awaited return. Jack's heart swelled with delight at his father's audacious proclamation of his less-than-legal occupation.

"Da?" Jack looked up at his father with inquiring eyes, "Will I ever have a ship as pretty as yours?"

The weather-beaten pirate crouched down to reach his son's eye level. "Jackie boy, you can do whatever it is that you want to do, understand? You could do any blasted thing on God's green earth, and I'd be proud of ye." Teague straightened himself into a standing position once more and took Jack's hand. "Course, I'd be more than happy to have meself a Captain Jack Sparrow, aye?"

Jack smiled. _Captain Jack Sparrow... _He liked the sound of that. The gleeful boy looked up at his father, silently vowing to become the best pirate that the world had ever seen.

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><p><em>Good things come to those who review...<em>


	2. Names

**A Pirate's Boy**

Chapter Two- It's Sparrow, Not Teague

_Author's Note- Just in case there was any confusion, no, I am not Walt Disney. Therefore I do not own any of the concentrated awesome that is Pirates of the Caribbean. Phew, glad I got that off my chest… :]_

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><p>"Mr. Joshamee Gibbs!"<p>

"Cap'n Teague! Good to see ye, sir!" A filthy young man scurried towards his commander, skidding on the wet deck in his haste to greet the pirate. After an unnerving moment of dramatic arm-flailing, the man came to a halt before Teague. "Welcome back, Cap'n! Ah, who's this handsome young lad?" Gibbs questioned at seeing the boy who was holding the thief's hand.

"This is Jackie," Teague replied, ruffling the child's unruly hair.

"So this be the famous Jack Sparrow. Great Scott, Cap'n. He looks exactly ye!"

Teague grinned. "Aye, that he does. Now Joshamee, you'll be responsible for makin' sure that the rest of these grimy swindlers remain unaware that Jackie's my boy. I'd sell my soul to Davy Jones hisself before I let any of these lowlifes lay a hand on Jackie here. Understood?"

"Clear as angels' spit, sir." Gibbs briefly saluted the captain before turning to leave. "I'll be seein' ye, Jackie," The young man waved to the pirate's son.

Jack and Teague walked hand in hand across the deck towards the captain's cabin. Jack beamed at the hard-working crew as they scampered about the deck of the _Misty Lady_.

"Welcome back, Cap'n!" came the call of the helmsman. Jack twisted out of his father's grasp and curiously approached the massive wheel of the ship. "'Ello, lad! Who might you be?" the man asked as Jack reached out to admire the helm's glossy surface.

Jack looked up into the kind sailor's eyes and cheerfully clarified, "I'm Captain Jack Sparrow!"

The helmsman's booming laugh carried across the deck. "Ah, Captain, is it? Well Captain Sparrow sir, what be your orders?"

The self-confident boy was about to respond when his arm was seized abruptly by a strong, rough hand.

"Mr. Cotton. Back to your station, if you please," Teague snapped at the sailor.

"My apologies, sir!" Cotton hastily busied himself with the wheel as Teague forcibly led Jack in the direction of his cabin, retaining his iron-clad grip on the child's arm.

Jack glanced back at Cotton and waved at the obviously distressed pirate. The helmsman smiled in response before refocusing on the wheel once more.

Teague herded his son into the cabin before promptly slamming the door. Jack, who was not the type to admit defeat under any circumstances, smirked at his father's frustrated features. The pirate captain would have normally swelled with pride at his son's cocky grin. He had, after all, inherited the charming leer from his father. Unfortunately for Jack, his father remained unfazed by his traditionally disarming smile.

Teague paced the cabin, apparently striving to calm himself down before he turned to face the young boy.

"Jackie, do you know why we call you 'Sparrow?'"

Jack's grin was replaced with an expression of genuine surprise at the unanticipated question. Teague chuckled at his son's confused face. "It's your mum's maiden name, isn't it?"

Jack nodded, still not following.

Teague sighed, obviously pained by the information that he was forced to reveal to his only child. "Jackie, we call you 'Sparrow' because I don't want anything to ever hurt you."

Jack's nose wrinkled in puzzlement. He got hurt all the time. Didn't his da remember when he fell out of that window and broke his leg? Or the time when his mum spanked him for draining a bottle of his father's rum?

Teague seemed to sense Jack's bewilderment, as he continued to explain. "Take a good look, Jackie boy. Who am I?"

The poor child was thrown into utter befuddlement at this uncharacteristic change of subject. Teague continued with a trace of disappointment in his voice, "Well I'm Captain Edward Teague, of course! Thief, murderer, and scoundrel! I've got meself more enemies than I know what to do with. And wouldn't it be just lovely for all those cheats to get their sweaty little hands on me only son? They'd have ol' Teague tied around their bloody fingertips if they knew about his little lad." Teague's voice broke at the thought of any harm coming to his child. He proceeded in almost a whisper, "So you see, Jackie? That's why you can't be Jack Teague. I wouldn't know what to do if..."

The usually lighthearted boy looked into his father's upset face. "Is that why you didn't want me to tell Mr. Cotton my name?"

Teague straightened up and patted the child's dark hair. "Aye, Jackie. Mr. Cotton be a good and respectable man, as is Mr. Gibbs, so there be no need to worry yourself about those two. Most of the crew, in fact, is made up of the most decent of villains that you ever saw. I still want you to be careful though, alright?"

"Alright, Da. But we _do_ look an awful lot the same, 'xcepts you're all wrinkled and such. Are you sure they won't figure it out on their own?"

Teague grinned. "Those flea-bitten devils wouldn't recognize their own uncle's ghost if it came up danced a jig in front of their eyes. Don't worry, laddie." Teague turned to start out the door when he glanced back at Jack once more and remarked with a grin, "Oh, and I hear tell from Mr. Cotton that it's _Captain _Jack Sparrow now, ain't it?"

Jack smiled. "Ooh, I like the sound of that,"

Teague chuckled. "Come on, boy. If you're gonna be the greatest captain to set sail, you best be learning from the master hisself."

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><p><em>Reviews are lovely… (hint hint)<em>


	3. Honestly Dishonest

**A Pirate's Boy**

Chapter Three- Honestly Dishonest

_Author's Note-__Just in case there was any confusion, no, I am not Walt Disney. Therefore I do not own any of the concentrated awesome that is Pirates of the Caribbean. Phew, glad I got that off my chest... :]_

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><p>The weather-beaten pirate frantically darted back and forth across the deck of the <em>Misty Lady,<em> desperately searching for a certain Sparrow that was nowhere to be found, all the while muttering to himself about how he was too old for this sort of thing. After his second or third excursion throughout the entire ship, a near-hysterical Captain Teague sought out his most virtuous crew member.

"Joshamee?" Teague tapped Gibbs on the shoulder with an uncharacteristic inflection of panic in his normally strong, gruff voice.

A disgruntled Gibbs turned around to see who had so rudely interrupted him while he had clearly been harassing the new cabin boy, only to find himself face to face with his captain. "Cap'n, sir! I'm awful sorry ye had to see that, ye know I was only-"

Teague appeared to have neither seen the cabin boy's plight nor hear the sailor's hasty excuses. "Joshamee," the older man whispered, "I can't find Jackie."

Gibbs was appropriately relieved at the pirate's negligible statement and he soothingly assured the distraught man, "No need to worry yerself, Cap'n. Why, ol' Jack's followin' orders just like ye told him."

Teague's gaze eagerly followed the young pirate's outstretched hand, only to see a middle-aged man vigorously scouring the deck with a soapy brush. "Not that Jack, you idiot!" Teague bellowed in his customarily harsh tone before he lowered his voice back to the apprehensive whisper that he had made use of previously. "_My_ Jackie!" The upset father urgently pointed to himself, insistent upon conveying the dire situation to the oblivious Joshamee Gibbs.

Gibbs tilted his head in apparent perplexity before comprehension slowly dawned on his face. "Oh!" the first mate exclaimed, "_That_ Jack!" Partially hoping for some sort of praise for his educated supposition, Gibbs turned to the man expectantly. Instead, however, he was rewarded with a sarcastic glare from the increasingly distressed father. "I'm awful sorry, Cap'n, but I haven't seen the lad since he came aboard yesterday."

Teague sighed, concluding that he would be required to appoint a search party for his missing son until he heard a voice drifting down from high in the mast.

"...Nah nah nah nah... And really bad eggs... Drink up me hearties yo ho..."

The pirate captain very nearly collapsed with relief at the sound of Jack's voice. He turned his eyes upwards and drank in the blessed sight of son sitting contentedly on a cross beam of the topmast, leaning nonchalantly against the sturdy timbers that held the ever-imperative sails.

Still overwhelmed with relief, Captain Teague deftly scaled the rigging of the ship with the agility of a far younger man, eager to reach his son, who had, technically, been as good as drowned and dead to him for a good two hours. Only a moment or so later, the reassured father situated himself across from his boy in the upper level of the mast.

Teague attempted to appear cross and irritated at Jack, but his absolute gratefulness that the lad had remained in one piece betrayed the man's valiant effort of remaining stony-faced as fatherly love won over the unforgiving pirate.

"Bloody..." Teague mumbled as he gathered the child into his arms, "What am I going to do with you, Jackie?" Previous resolutions of a lengthy reprimand evaporated as the dark-haired boy nestled himself deeper into his father's faded coat.

"S'pose you could get me a ship of me own," came the muffled voice of the child.

Teague smirked. "I was gonna teach you the tricks of bein' a pirate today, Jackie, but you had to run off and get yourself stuck up here..." Teague started regretfully.

Squirming out of his father's grasp, Jack stared into the man's twinkling eyes with a matching pair of his own. "Really Da? Would you really?" the boy asked in disbelieving awe.

"Course I would. Where else is Captain Jack Sparrow going to learn his piratey ways from? Your mum?"

And so the pair, still positioned forty feet above the deck, conversed about a variety of things, pirate and otherwise. Fleeting glances towards the two figures settled in the mast confirmed several of the crew members suspicions. Not being as nearly as dull as they seemed, many of the sailors had made the connection between their captain and his miniature duplicate. Mischievous dark eyes, bronzed skin, even the confident swagger in his stride marked the Sparrow boy as the son of the malicious pirate.

"Da?" Jack had thoroughly enjoyed the lengthy conversation with his father, yet, as any young boy, his attention span was not significantly long and was looking forward to the conclusion of his Teague's speech. "How'd you get to be a nice pirate?"

It was a legitimate question, as Teague had just spent the better part of an hour voicing the cutthroat nature of said criminals. Pirates, Teague had explained, were not the type to take 'no' for an answer. They weren't required to follow any rules, save for their own. Pirates were unforgiving, murderous thieves. And villainous as they were, pirates were free.

Therefore, Teague was rather taken aback by his son's innocent inquiry. After contemplating for a moment or so, Teague tried to explain his long-established belief in terms that a child could comprehend.

"Now Jackie boy, every good pirate is quietly a noble, honest man. The trick is to keep that respectableness a secret." Teague concluded sagely as he tapped his temple with a gnarled forefinger.

Jack was about to point out some of the conspicuous flaws in his father's reasoning, but was cut off by a voice from the deck.

"Beggin' yer pardon, Cap'n, but yer needed on deck, sir." A clearly disquieted Mr. Gibbs frantically beckoned Teague with a stout hand.

"Best to not be gettin' your knickers in a bunch, Joshamee," Teague called back as he began to descend, "What seems to be the problem?"

As the captain, closely followed by his son, clumsily alighted on the deck, Gibbs gestured towards the starboard side of the ship into a seemingly endless fog. "See for yerself, Cap'n,"

Teague casually walked across to the starboard railing of his beloved ship, straining to distinguish what had caused his young friend such distress. However, the mirthless fog discouraged the pirate from seeing barely stone's-throw ahead of him.

But then he saw it.

"Jackie, get to the cabin." Teague commanded urgently.

"But Da-"

"Please, Jackie boy. Just _go." _

Nonetheless, before the boy was out of earshot, Teague whispered to no one in particular, albeit the fog itself, "_Bloody..._ They've finally caught up with me, eh?"

The child scrambled across the deck, haphazardly dodging the crew members that were hastily rushing to their stations. Phrases such as, "...come after Teague... five hundred pound reward... Eldridge Becket hisself... entire Royal Navy behind him... hide the rum..." were echoed across the _Misty Lady _as Jack darted towards the captain's cabin.

Upon reaching the cabin, Jack peered over his shoulder, only to glimpse an unfamiliar ship emerging from the dismal fog.

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	4. Keep To The Code

**A Pirate's Boy**

Chapter Four- Keep To The Code

_Author's Note-__Just in case there was any confusion, no, I am not Walt Disney. Therefore I do not own any of the concentrated awesome that is Pirates of the Caribbean. Phew, glad I got that off my chest... :]_

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><p>Cutler Beckett smiled humorlessly at the unmistakable silhouette of the <em>Misty Lady, <em>sitting vulnerably atop the inky water. According to his father, Lord Eldridge Beckett, the majestic ship belonged to none other than the infamous pirate captain, Edward Teague. Teague's name had become synonymous with crime and piracy in Port Royal, as well as in several of the surrounding colonies. A five-hundred pound bounty had been bestowed on the capture of the captain, without evident concern about the liveliness of the wretched man should he be returned. Even yet, Eldridge Beckett had little interest in the hefty reward for the arrest of the pirate. No, Beckett was pursuing something far, _far _more valuable than British coins. At least, that was what Cutler had been told.

"Cutler," a brusque voice curtly interrupted his thoughts, "Please confine yourself to the cabin. I don't want you to be exposed to such appalling creatures such as pirates."

Cutler began to protest, but was cut off by his father's upraised hand. "Do as you're told," Lord Beckett commanded monotonously.

The young boy, more out of habit than anything else, begrudgingly obeyed his father. Stealing a glance over his shoulder, Cutler smiled coldly once more as the _Misty Lady _steadily grew closer.

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><p>"Joshamee." A clearly distressed Captain Teague spoke to his young friend in a hushed, cautious tone, "I need you to do something for me."<p>

"Absolutely, Cap'n! Anything ye like!" an overly eager Gibbs replied.

"Joshamee, you know why Beckett's here, I presume. If, on the off chance that I were to be taken as a captive of sorts, I'd greatly appreciate it if you'd keep to the Code."

"Leave ye behind, Cap'n? But sir, ye can't possibly-" Gibbs hurriedly tried to reason with Teague before he was interrupted.

"The Code is the law, Mr. Gibbs," he growled softly, "The rest of the crew needn't get hurt... Jackie can't get hurt."

"But Cap'n, wouldn't it be a wonderful opportunity to embrace the oldest and noblest of pirate traditions and make a clever escape?" the man argued, trying to sway Teague's unyielding decision.

Teague gazed melancholically at his grand vessel that had served him well for many years. "She's not as capable of clever escapes as she once was, Mr. Gibbs. They'd catch us soon enough."

"But sir, couldn't... would you..." Gibbs was finally out of excuses. He raised his eyes to meet his captains apologetic gaze. "Aye aye, sir."

Teague smiled reassuringly as he strode away, thundering orders to the rest of his shipmates. An uneasy Gibbs peered over the rail at the Royal Navy's _HMS Mordaunt_ through the ghostly fog, as it silently and dependably grew closer.

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><p>Jack Sparrow had never been the type to follow rules. After all, as a pirate, one could argue that they were more like <em>guidelines, <em>anyway. Such philosophy led to the inevitable escape of the young boy from the prison that was his own room. Inconspicuously slipping between the preoccupied sailors, Jack nimbly scaled the rigging once more, settling himself on the same perch as he had previously. The other ship was particularly close now, and Jack could tell that it was the less-than-friendly type. Cannons slowly protruded from the side of the ship, and although the _Misty Lady_ was still out of range, the crew below seemed to be thrown into a panic-induced frenzy. Young Jack, however, felt no such anxiety. He was rather grateful for the favorable resting place above the deck, as it would provide him with an excellent view of the imminent battle. The Navy must have been completely mad to try to overtake _his _father's ship.

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><p>"Prepare to board," Lord Beckett shouted loudly and somewhat lazily before turning to his second in command. "You know why we're here, Mr. Kinsey,"<p>

"Yes sir," the man replied in an equally authoritative tone, "We are here for the pirate, correct?"

Beckett turned once more and stared icily at the impressive ship, which was now very close. Without returning his gaze to Kinsey, he calmly replied, "Precisely. Yet despite the various death sentences that the man has acquired, you are not to harm him. He may posses some information that may prove... _useful."_

Kinsey saluted his commander before briskly marching away to relay the orders to the remainder of the crew.

Eldridge Beckett peered unemotionally at the unusually tranquil sea, pondering his mission. Teague would not come quietly, that much was certain. _Perhaps something to persuade the villain... _he mused. _But surely, a pirate couldn't possibly be capable of loving anything, save for rum, of course..._

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><p>"Cap'n! They be preparin' to board!" Gibbs called in dismay.<p>

"To your stations, you blasted cowards! All hands at the ready!" Teague bellowed as the first of the uniform-clad soldiers swung from the _HMS Mordaunt, _closing the gap between ships and awkwardly landed on the deck of Teague's beloved _Misty Lady. _

The ringing of clashing swords, the sudden explosions of pistols, and the groans of wounded men filled the once-peaceful air. _What, they sent the entire bloody Navy? _an appalled Teague thought to himself as he deftly shot a man in the forehead whilst skewering another on his sword.

Joshamee Gibbs had not had a great deal of experience in the refined art of battle. He had, after all, only become a pirate as of late, and was therefore horrified when he came face to face with Eldridge Beckett himself. Beckett smiled with sickening sweetness as he raised the tip of his sword to Gibbs's throat. His grin widened and he stated simply, "Parley."

An ominous silence overtook the ship as Beckett followed young Gibbs, his sword positioned between the pirate's shoulder blades. Gibbs unwillingly and regretfully led the spiteful man to Captain Teague, who, oddly enough, had not taken note of the unnatural silence. Withdrawing his blade from the limp form that it had recently pierced, Teague straightened himself up and looked cheerfully at his friend.

"'Ello, Josha-" his words died on his lips as his eyes shifted from Gibbs's dejected face to the cruel smirk of Lord Beckett.

"I'm sorry, Cap'n, but..." Gibbs started regretfully, "You see sir... we... we be under the right of parley."

"Ah," Teague said, finally comprehending the grim atmosphere, "So, Mr. Beckett, I assume that you're here to whisk me away to a certain and impending doom, aye?"

Beckett shrewdly stepped out from behind Gibbs and looked disdainfully at the pirate captain. "Actually, I was hoping that you would be able to enlighten me on the topic of... _Davy Jones."_

Teague took an unintentional step back at Beckett's hushed inquiry. "I don't know what you're talking about," he stated as he raised his chin defiantly.

"Of course." Beckett nodded in sympathetic understanding. Turning to the collection of soldiers behind him, he nonchalantly waved his hand in the thief's direction. "Take him away,"

Without time enough to raise his sword, Teague found himself handcuffed and restrained by six redcoats. Several of the pirate crewmen started forward to help their commander, only to suppressed by additional soldiers. "Keep to the Code!" Teague barked at them in a strained voice.

The cowardly soldiers herded the defenseless pirate towards the side of the ship, intent on keeping him hostage, until a sharp cry caused them to suddenly halt.

"_DA!"_

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><p><em>Please review! Criticism and ideas are always splendiferous!<em>


	5. Two Fathers

**A Pirate's Boy**

Chapter Five- Two Fathers

_Author's Note-__Just in case there was any confusion, no, I am not Walt Disney. Therefore I do not own any of the concentrated awesome that is Pirates of the Caribbean. Phew, glad I got that off my chest... :]_

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><p>"<em>DA!"<em>

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><p>The day that Rosalynn had proclaimed that, in naught but a few months, Teague would be a father had been collectively one of the happiest and most disheartening days of the pirate's adventure-filled life. The joyous twinkle that had overtaken his wife's chocolate-colored eyes had not gone unnoticed by the father-to-be during the long weeks of her pregnancy. And yet, her husband did not typically mirror the contagious euphoria that radiated from Rosalynn. It was usually, in fact, completely reversed and twisted into a melancholy feeling of forthcoming catastrophe. Teague, whose own childhood had been anything but quintessential (or even especially pleasant), was virtually petrified at the thought of raising a child. It wasn't the overbearing costs, or the burdensome labor that would come along with parenthood, but rather the dreadful notion that he would disappoint his young lad.<p>

And yet, when he would peer into his wife's gleeful eyes, something in his wrinkled, battle-scarred face would soften as Rosalynn babbled on about their coming infant. It was during one such circumstance that Teague had named their unborn baby, and being the obstinate man that he was, campaigned for the aforementioned name with such enthusiasm that his wife dared not suggest that the child could be a girl. There was simply no plausible alternative to the headstrong pirate; his decision was as good as set in stone, signed in blood, and approved by the good Lord Almighty himself. For the boy's name would be, without fail, Jack Sparrow.

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><p>Suddenly awakened from his reverie, Teague found himself being restrained by no less than six royal soldiers, all of which were staring at the dark-haired boy who was sprinting towards them with a look of wild desperation in his youthful eyes. Momentarily stunned, the uniformed sailors simply watched as the boy weaved his way through the crowd of stationary redcoats, urgently attempting to reach the powerless Captain Teague. As the child's hand extended in a hopeless effort to reach his father, the red-clad soldiers came to life instantaneously, promptly seizing the struggling boy. He thrashed and squirmed in the arms of a barrel-chested sailor, but to no avail.<p>

Eldridge Beckett, having recovered from his brief bout with shock, hastily regained his composure and approached the dejected form of the child. His cold eyes quickly scrutinized the boy's disheveled attire; torn shirt, faded vest, striped sash, and various belts embellished with all sorts of odds and ends clearly distinguished the boy as a pirate. A miniature version, perhaps, but a pirate nonetheless. It was not the outfit that troubled Beckett, however. No, the untidy appearance was merely trifling compared to what had unnerved the unforgiving lord.

The child seemed bizarrely familiar. Beckett gave an involuntary jerk of his wigged head as the boy looked up at him through tousled dark locks. Those eyes. Deep, emotional orbs, contorted by anguish and hate. Where had he seen those eyes before, the gaze so intense that it appeared as if they were tending a low fire in the back of his skull? The gaze between child and lord was bluntly cut off as the boy refocused his stare upon Captain Teague, who looked back at the child with an equally severe gaze.

_Ah. _Eldridge Beckett, after a series of glances between the older and younger pirate, made the connection. Gesturing to the pudgy soldier to step closer, Beckett leaned forward, positioning his face only inches away from the frightened child's. "What is your name?"

After a slight hesitation, the boy responded with surprising defiance, "Smith. Or Smithy."

Beckett smirked. "Is it now?" Straightening up and turning, the lord addressed Teague. "Captain Teague, do you have any connection with young Mr. Smith here?"

A glimmer of fear in the criminal's face was hurriedly masked by evident annoyance. "He's be my cabin boy. Awful bothersome little blighter, too."

Beckett nodded compassionately. "Of course. You know, Teague, I might be able to rid you of your troublesome burden. I would be more than happy to take Mr. Smith to Port Royal with me. Naturally, his affiliation with pirates would inevitably lead to a... short drop and a sudden stop. But, at least _you_ would be free of your troublesome responsibility."

Teague jerked forward with an infuriated cry of, "_No!" _All too late he realized that he had supplied Beckett with the precise reaction that he had been pining for.

"Are you certain that you and Mr. Smith have no further relations? It would seem that you are particularly fond of your irritating cabin boy." Beckett said with a sarcastic tone. Teague simply stared at his tattered boots in resistance. "Due to your disinclination to speak, I will be forced to interrogate your shipmates." Eldrige Beckett turned towards the crew, the click of his heels echoing over the noiseless deck as he approached the apprehensive pirates.

The deafening silence was broken when Beckett asked an unsanitary sailor for his name.

"Cotton, sir," the man replied.

Smiling distastefully at the quivering man, the lord addressed him in an unnecessarily loud voice, for the rest of the crew's benefit. "Well, Mr. Cotton. Do you have anything to say about the mysterious Mr. Smith?"

Visibly upset, Cotton's eyes shifted from Beckett to Teague to 'Smithy' before replying. "N-not much, sir. He's just a c-cabin boy, like Cap'n Teague said." He concluded his feeble speech with a nod in his captain's direction.

Beckett sighed. "It is _so _refreshing to meet such honest men as yourself." Beckoning to the redcoats near to him, the lord continued. "Oh dear, my mistake! You're only a _pirate." _

As he spat out the unsavory word, the two soldiers clasped each of Cotton's arms. Beckett looked at the man with prominent loathing as he whispered into his face, "I strongly suggest that you tell the truth for once in your repulsive life, Mr. Cotton. Now, who is the boy?"

"No one!" Cotton exclaimed all too hastily.

Rapidly becoming querulous, Beckett hissed into the pirate's face once again. "I'm not a patient man, Mr. Cotton. You may inform us of the boy's identity, or you may lose your tongue. I will find out either way, mind you, for I am completely capable of communicating by means of sign language."

To punctuate their commander's point, one of the soldiers clubbed the wretched man forcefully in the back of the head with the end of his musket, causing him to crumple to the ground. A well-aimed kick to the ribs knocked the wind out of the filthy sailor. Glancing remorsefully at Captain Teague, Cotton whispered the coveted information that Beckett had yearned for.

"Sp-Sp-Sparrow. His name is Jack Sparrow."

Still assuming that he was being misled, Beckett delivered a weighty kick to Cotton's side. A satisfying crack indicated that a rib had broken, to the pitiless lord's delight. Gasping for breath, the demoralized pirate looked up once more.

"Teague... Teague's... son..." he wheezed.

A nauseating grin spread across Eldridge Beckett's face at the crucial enlightenment. "Mr. Cotton, I thank you from the very depths of my being. You have proven yourself to be a noteworthy pirate, and I am very grateful. Unfortunately though, as reputable of man as you may be, I'm afraid that that does nothing to alter your status as a criminal." As Cotton's face fell, Beckett waved to his followers, casually commanding, "Cut out his tongue."

The soldiers dragged Cotton to the back of the crowd, so as to not upset the more squeamish members of the King's Navy. Cotton made a valiant effort to escape his fate, but another substantial kick sabotaged his attempts. From behind the stony-faced wall of uniformed soldiers came an anguished cry, signaling that the gruesome feat had been completed.

Beckett's half-smile remained unwavering all the while. As Cotton's whimpers ceased, Eldridge Beckett solemnly paced towards Teague.

"It seems, Captain Teague, that we have had a slight alteration in the current circumstance. I would advise you to cooperate, lest your _son_ suffer the consequences of your misbehavior."

The dejected pirate looked up through kohl-rimmed eyes, the heartache etched on his wrinkled face. The only sound was the jingle of the various trinkets in his matted hair as the wind silently flitted across the placid ocean water. To a dissociated passerby, it may have seemed as though time itself had paused and was content to remain that way; satisfied to merely observe the unusual tranquility of the untamable Caribbean sea. After what seemed like an eternity, the dark-haired captain broke the tense silence, startling a number of men with his low, gravelly voice.

"What about Cutler?"

Eldridge Beckett unceremoniously whipped his wigged head around to stare at the pirate lord with an uncharacteristic look of bewilderment on his face. He stood that way for a good minute or so, immersed in utter confusion before he spoke again in a strained whisper.

"Cutler? I don't know what you're talking about."

Teague looked at the uniformed lord with loathing in his dark eyes. "Your son, Beckett! Your oldest son, Cutler!" Eldridge Beckett showed no indication that he had heard the outburst; save for his lips tightening into a pale, thin line. Teague continued more quietly. "Beckett, you can hang me a thousand times over, but _y_ou will bring no harm to my son! Pirate though I may be, Jack means as much to me as Cutler must mean to y-"

Something snapped within Eldridge Beckett's unforgiving mind on that fateful day. Years of well-concealed emotions were suddenly unleashed in a simple moment, rushing forward and threatening to overwhelm the highly respected and composed lord. His eyes overcome by sudden hysteria, Beckett all but shrieked back at the pirate captain. "I do not _**care **_for Cutler! I do not care for _**anyone**__! _Take him away!"

* * *

><p>The spiteful shout echoed ominously over the glassy water, slowly dying as it was carried by a whispering wind. Faint as it was, however, it seemed deafening to the ears of the lone twelve-year-old figure, standing aboard the forlorn, vacant deck of the <em>HMS Mordaunt.<em>

* * *

><p>Show of hands, who has ever wondered why our favorite, vertically challenged villain was so... villainous? Oh, just me? Alright...<p> 


	6. Separated

**A Pirate's Boy**

Chapter Six- Separated

_Author's Note- Just in case there was any confusion, no, I am not Walt Disney. Therefore I do not own any of the concentrated awesome that is Pirates of the Caribbean. Phew, glad I got that off my chest... :]_

* * *

><p>Gnarled fingers, most of which had been broken at some point, effortlessly danced across the well-worn strings while gaudy jewels that embellished the misshapen knuckles flickered in the dim light. The hands that the fingers belonged to affectionately cradled the tattered instrument, which was emitting an otherworldly melody. The overall effect was rather baffling, however, as it seemed nearly sacrilegious for a man in shackles to be generating such an ethereal ambiance. Nonetheless, the man in question seemed to be oblivious towards his bleak surroundings; namely the iron bars encasing him. He was in his own world. With his eyes, as well as mind, closed to reality, he poured his very essence into the beloved instrument. Resonant, echoing notes drifted from the reverberating strings to the player's ears, causing a smile to tug at the corners of his mouth. By all appearances, the man seemed content to remain that way, slouched against the wall with a guitar in his arms, and very well could have, if it weren't for that bothersome fact called reality.<p>

He was suddenly startled out of his pensiveness by a clattering bang and muted thud. Raising his eyes towards the source of disturbance, Teague saw his son sprawled pathetically across the damp floor of the brig. Sighing in frustration, Jack Sparrow shook his tangled hair out of his face as he stood up, obviously intent on making another attempt at escape. Before Teague's well-meaning reprimand could be heard, the boy flung his small body forcefully into the iron door, once again collapsing onto the sticky floor. Teague sucked in his cheeks and winced, releasing a comical, "Oooh..." from his lips. The door, however, simply vibrated in response to the child's dauntless effort.

"That's not going to help, Jackie," Teague said, resisting the urge to chuckle.

After briefly looking up to glare at his father and letting his head drop back to the floor, Jack emitted another exasperated sigh as he wrung his hands in the air at some indiscernible object. He didn't appreciate being locked up. He had never been trapped anywhere before, save for the basement cellar, and that had been an accident. It was so dreadfully _boring _to be a prisoner. He cast another glare at his father, who was sitting untroubled in his cell across from his son. _At least he has something to do, _Jack thought spitefully. He was still unsure of how Teague had managed to bring his guitar on board without it being confiscated.

Teague smirked at the boy, limbs splayed over the floor in a pitiful display. It had been something like three days since they had been taken aboard the _Mordaunt _if he had counted correctly. Initially, he hadn't been concerned about his stay in Beckett's ship, since a quick-witted crewman had managed to supply the captain with his treasured instrument. With his guitar in his hands and a reasonably comfortable cell to stay in (that is, compared to the countless of other prisons that he had graced with his presence), he was almost satisfied. His eternal smirk had faltered dramatically, however, when the red-coated soldiers had unceremoniously thrown Jack into his _own_ cell, well away from his pirate father. At the time, Teague had been furious. Did the cowards not trust him with his own son?

After his original anger had subsided, the pirate found himself feeling oddly proud of six-year-old Jack. Instead of pouting or bursting into tears upon being separated from Teague, the boy had sat down stiffly in the corner of his cell and declared that it would have been terribly crowded with two people.

"Dad?" Jack whined without looking up, "When are we getting out of here?"

The criminal smiled. The impatient child had asked that question (or variations of it) every hour or so since being taken captive. And Teague had responded with the same answer each time. "Soon, Jackie boy."

Truthfully, Teague doubted that they would be released in the near future, if at all. Under usual circumstances, the imprisoned pirate would be headed for the nearest port, and consequently, the nearest gallows. And upon arrival, Teague would make a customary escape that often left government officials baffled.

Unfortunately, the pirate captain had never been in a situation like the present one in all his years of experience. Yes, the Royal Navy had captured him before. He had been interrogated for an assortment reasons on a variety of subjects. He had miraculously avoided the hangman's noose on several occasions. Yet, during all of his previous escapades and adventures, there had been little to worry about, as it was always _his_ life that was in peril. (Except, of course, the time that he kidnapped the duke of Luxembourg. The poor duke had been scarred for life.)

The feared pirate, for the first time in his career, felt helpless as he gazed at his son, sprawled carelessly across the filthy floor. Beckett could not, _could not,_ learn of the Brethren Court's secrets, specifically of Davy Jones. The East India Trading Company would be able to control the seas, and would eradicate anyone who was even faintly connected with piracy. Unconsciously massaging the _P_ on his wrist, his heart constricted as he thought of his wife, who was nearly a pirate herself thanks to her husband. But, if Teague failed to supply Beckett with the information regarding Jones, young Jack would pay for his defiance.

He slammed the back of his head into the wall in frustration. It was times like these that he wished he had never met that headstrong, clever Sparrow woman all those years ago. Exasperated as he was, he couldn't suppress the grin that tugged at his cheeks. He had been stupid, head-over-heels in love with a girl who didn't seem to recognize his existence. Why hadn't he been sensible, and instead of settling down, simply lived a lawless, reckless life like a logical pirate? It would have saved him so much trouble. Teague shook his head. He wouldn't trade his wife and son for anything in the world.

That's why they _had_ to escape.

* * *

><p>Lazily tracing the coastline of Africa with his fingertip on a map, Eldridge Beckett thought. He contemplated the nameless whelp that had first told him of Davy Jones. It had been young pirate, who, before his capture, had served under a man by the name of Gentleman Jocard. The man had been left behind in the villain-ridden port, Tortuga, for some incomprehensible reason. Obviously drunk, the sailor had been boasting about the Brethren Court, of how he knew all of its secrets and mysteries, to anyone who would listen. Upon his passing out, Beckett's men had taken him aboard the <em>HMS Mordaunt, <em>where he had been interrogated, and the man's drunken stories were revealed to be just that; drunken stories. As it turned out, the man knew virtually nothing beneficial regarding the infamous pirate court. In a desperate attempt to save his incompetent life, he had cried out after Beckett as he was exiting the room. "Wait! There... there is a chest."

All that he had learned from the young African sailor was that there was a man called Davy Jones. Cursed forever, bound to sail the sea until Judgement Day. Merciless, deadly, unforgiving... heartbroken. And he who possessed the chest (whose contents remained undetermined) would have control of the Flying Dutchman and her captain, and subsequently, the seas.

Control of the seas. Eldridge Beckett smiled coldly to himself. He needed that chest, and whatever lay inside it. And therefore, he needed Teague. It was common knowledge that Captain Edward Teague was highly respected and feared by pirates across the globe, so it seemed probable that he, of all people, knew of the Brethren Court's most closely guarded secrets.

Beckett smiled once more. How _convenient _that the cutthroat pirate had had a son, as it could have proved a difficult task indeed to convince the man to relinquish the desired information. It was also quite favorable that the ruthless villain seemed unnaturally fond of his child-

Beckett slammed his hand onto the desk as he thought of his _own_ son. Attempting to clear the unpleasant thoughts from his mind, he chose a book from the table, resolving to save theories about Teague for another day.

* * *

><p><em>...wade out in the water for three days and nights, so as for the swimmy creatures to get accustomed to my presence... rope a couple of sea turtles together and ride 'em out to Tortuga... human hair... from my back...<em>

The captain groaned. Ingenious plans of escape were usually painless and straightforward for the well-renowned criminal, as he was very well practiced in the art of avoiding certain doom. He carefully reached for his guitar to ease his troubled thoughts when he heard Jack's voice. He was prepared to respond with the traditional, "We'll be home soon, Jackie," but for once, the boy had changed the subject.

"Da, I don't feel right."

Teague's eyebrows knitted in confusion. "How's that, Jackie?" It couldn't have been seasickness; Jack had felt fine while aboard the _Misty Lady. _

"I dunno. My head feels all hot, and my guts are all... blughh." Jack illustrated the _blughh_ with quirky hand motions.

Mildly concerned, Teague made to stand up to get to his boy, only to remember that they were separated by a good twelve feet, not to mention iron bars. Dejectedly slumping back to the floor, the pirate looked irritatedly at the cell's door. _Bugger. _

"Just take it easy, boy. No more trying to break out of here, alright?"

"All right, Dad," the pirate's son mumbled as he curled up on the floor, quietly drifting into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

><p>A loud voice pierced the otherwise peaceful air, overpowering the rhythmic crash of the ocean waves and the soft clinking of chains. Craning his neck to see above the well-dressed crowd in front of him, Teague found that he was about to witness a hanging. A filthy, dreadlocked man was standing before the noose, looking remarkably at ease.<p>

"This man has been convicted for his willful commission of crime against the crown." the voice droned, "Said crimes being sinister in nature, with the most egregious of these to be sighted here: Piracy, smuggling, impersonating an officer of the Spanish Royal Navy, impersonating a cleric of the Church of England, sailing under false colors, kidnapping, looting, poaching, pilfering, depravity, and general lawlessness. For these crimes, you have been sentenced to be, on this day, hung by the neck until dead, by order of Lord Cutler Beckett, duly appointed representative of His Majesty, the King. May God have mercy on your soul."

In the midst of the long list of felonies, Teague began to question the identity of this very successful pirate. Having committed so many crimes, the pirate lord was slightly put out that he did not know who the substantial villain standing before him was.

The man looked up through wisps of hair and kohl-rimmed eyelids as the hooded executioner positioned the noose around his neck. Jack smiled.

Jack? _Jack, it's Jack. It's my Jackie! _Teague started forward, hastily trying to reach his son, pushing his way through the crowd.

The masked hangman stiffly took hold of the handle to the small door underneath Jack's booted feet as soldiers began the drum roll. And then the steady beat stopped abruptly.

There was a sickening crack of a snapping spine. And it was over.

* * *

><p>Teague gasped for air as he awoke from his nightmare, only to find himself in the brig of the <em>HMS Mordaunt. <em>Desperately trying to see through the think, tangible darkness, the pirate finally found the blissful sight of the six-year-old boy, sleeping soundly in the corner of his cell. The man could have wept with relief. There was nothing that he wanted more than to wrap the child in a tight embrace, to protect him from the world.

But they were separated. And Teague could not reach him.


	7. Nightmares

**A Pirate's Boy**

Chapter Seven- Nightmares

_Author's Note- Just in case there was any confusion, no, I am not Walt Disney. Therefore I do not own any of the concentrated awesome that is Pirates of the Caribbean. Phew, glad I got that off my chest... :]_

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><p><em>Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me... "Eat your vegetables, Jack..." We're rascals and scoundrels and villains and knaves... "Captain Sparrow, is it now?"... Drink up, me hearties, yo ho... "I'd never, under any circumstances, let anything happen to Jackie..." We're devils and black sheep and really bad eggs... "Great Scott, Cap'n! He looks just like ye!"... Drink up me hearties, yo ho... "It's Smith. Or Smithy, if you like<em>..._" Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me... "Cut out his tongue..." We're beggars and blighters and ne'er do well cads... "I do not care for anyone!"_ _Drink up, me hearties, yo ho... _"Jack..." _Aye, but we're loved by our mommies and dads... _"Jackie boy..." _Drink up, me hearties, yo ho... _**"Jack, wake up!"**..._Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me..._

The grimy child awoke suddenly from his fever-induced sleep, drenched in his own cold sweat. He had been dreaming; at least, that was closest term that could explain the blurry, half-formed thoughts that had been drifting through his mind while he had been teetering between consciousness and non. He struggled to sit up and find the familiar sight of his father's dark, creased face. "Dad?" he called in a weak voice.

"I'm right here, Jackie, I'm right here." Teague was crouched against the door, his hands pressed against the iron bars, so as to get as close to his son as physically possible. "How're you feeling?"

"Awful." Jack stated truthfully as he dropped his head into his knees. The poor boy looked awful, too. His shivering contrasted unpleasantly with his sweating, and even in the dim light, his skin had taken on a sickly green tinge.

Over the next few days, the poor boy's condition worsened, developing into vomiting whatever little food that he had in his stomach. It had become nigh unbearable for his father, who, although would probably not have been very helpful in ridding him of the disease, could hardly endure the sight of Jack suffering while he sat in his cell, unable to reach or comfort the child. The best that he was allowed to offer were words of reassurance as the frail form succumbed to another bout of hacking.

Such was the situation that the young sailor of a mere nineteen years old, who was responsible for delivering meals consisting of unsavory food and water to the prisoners, found himself in. He was perturbed to see the notorious pirate reaching through the bars, as it appeared to be an attempt at escape. Only when he heard the distasteful retching noises from the cell behind him did he realize that the man was not making a getaway. The sailor cautiously turned the corner to find a small boy doubled over in a fit of dry heaving, while the pirate captain's outstretched hand pathetically tried to reach the child. Upon setting foot in a sticky puddle, the crewman's boots emitted an irksome squeak. Teague abruptly whipped his head around, causing his dark dreadlocks to splay out behind him as his sleep-deprived eyes searched for the cause of disruption. Quickly rising to his feet and ignoring the heavy shackles' creaks of protest, he gave the youthful man a deathly glare as he proceeded into an unmelodious tirade.

The poor sailor was quite taken aback by the sudden lecture, only managing to decipher the general concept of the criminal's rant. Can't you idiots see he's sick, why won't you half-witted morons do anything about it, and why won't you let me get to him seemed to be the principle ideas of the villain's speech, amidst all the swearing and obscenities. He concluded his furious rant with a hostile stare at the bewildered young man.

"I-I'm sorry, sir, er, captain, I mean..." the pitiful sailor stuttered, "L-Lord Beckett's says I'm not to f-fraternize with the... the prisoners, sir." The boy flinched as Teague appeared to be launching into another tempestuous diatribe, but the deckhand hastily cut him off, "I'll see what I can do about your, er, th-the boy, sir... Get him some real food, I will, sir, I mean, captain, I mean-"

"What's your name, boy?" the pirate inquired gruffly.

"Turner, sir. Bill T-Turner."

* * *

><p>Cutler pressed his palms against his ears, screwing his eyes shut and vigorously shaking his head, as if that would somehow assist in ridding his mind of the echoing phrase that had been haunting him for nearly two weeks now. <em>I do not care for anyone, I do not care for anyone, I do not care for anyone. <em>Needless to say, his efforts proved to be ineffectual, for the ghostly words only seemed to be encouraged by his assaults and whispered through his head all the louder. The boy finally succumbed to the unrelenting murmurs, and resolved to contemplate the phrase for what seemed like the thousandth time in the past several days.

His father couldn't have meant what he had said. He had been provoked by that horrid pirate, that was all it had been. _But why can't I forget? _The boy had always had an unjustified sense of unwavering pride in his father, as lord and head of the East India Trading Company. Therefore, he had never seen fit to admit, even to himself, that he had known. That he had known all along.

Cutler sighed in surrender. It really wouldn't do any good to deny reality, now would it? The notion had been gnawing at the back of his mind ever since Eldridge Beckett's cries had drifted across the dark, glassy water from the otherwise silent deck of the _Misty Lady. _Cutler figured that he had known before; he had always known. His father's hurtful words were genuine. He had meant it.

And he sat there, calmly yielding to the truth that his father didn't really give a dang about him, as if someone had casually commented that it seemed like a pleasant day for a picnic. It was rather relieving to be perfectly blunt with his self; it would certainly save him from a good deal of unnecessary introspection. He very nearly smiled to no one in particular at his educated deduction, but the eerie voice drifted through his head, interrupting his thoughts once more. _I do not care for anyone, I do not care for anyone, I do not care for anyone. _

Cutler's half-smile faltered. His father did not care for him.

He appeared to be frozen that way, his eyebrows furrowed in slight bafflement and a peculiar, strained smile on his face.

And he snapped.

The traditionally even-tempered boy was abruptly thrown into an uncharacteristic outrage at the unrelenting echoes in his mind. His father's lingering words-as well as his better judgment-were drowned by his sudden fury as he stood up from the desk where he sat. He wasn't certain of where he was headed, but he had to _go. _He flung the door open and practically ran to wherever it was that his feet would see fit to carry him. He didn't care where, as long as it was away from… from… here_. _

_I do not care for anyone, I do not care for anyone, I do not care for anyone, I do not care for anyone, I do not care for anyone, I do not care for anyone, I do not care for anyone..._

Much to his surprise, he found himself below deck in the brig, once the feverish red haze had been cleared from his vision. Still breathing heavily, Cutler hastily looked about him, so as to make sure he was alone. It would not do to have his father witness him breaking down into furious sobs. He was on the brink of doing so when he heard an airy, otherworldly sound, drifting towards him from the far side of the ship's prison. Guitar.

* * *

><p>The disheveled, frail form of a child rocked himself to sleep in the corner of his cell, softly crying out for his da as he drifted into unconsciousness. He fought desperately to stay awake, as he knew that nothing enjoyable would be awaiting him in the suffocating blanket of sleep. Nightmares lay in the inescapable darkness, ready to welcome him with open, smothering arms. Unfortunately, they were not the types of nightmares that generally involved monsters or bogeymen, and consequently, an exciting adventure that the young lad usually enjoyed. No, the nightmares were far... <em>less<em> than that. _Nothingness_. Although it was not the type of pleasant, lethargic nothingness that one looks forward to after a tiring week of strenuous work. No, it was the sort of nothingness that so often accompanies the day after Christmas, or the loss of a beloved toy, or the death of a loved one. Nothingness that was wont to leave a palpable absence in its ghastly wake. That was what awaited young Jack, ready to snare and strangle him as soon as his mind would make a misstep and slip into the crushing sea of unconsciousness. It was there, entangled and trapped in his own mind, that the boy felt the farthest away from all that he held dear, for his father's husky laugh could not penetrate the darkness. The memories of his mother's well-meaning reprimands would dissolve into silence. The salty taste of his chapped lips after a day on the sea, the giddy euphoric feeling of being tickled by his mum, the months of gleeful anticipation for his father to return home; all of it was swallowed by the constricting oblivion. And the nightmares, once they had latched onto the child, only seemed to drag him deeper and deeper into the suffocating blackness until morning, when his father's voice would permeate the choking sleep, and Jack would slowly emerge from unconsciousness, like a diver kicking his way to the surface of a muddy lake.

But morning was a terribly long ways away.

Teague watched through disconsolate eyes, his entire face laced with grief as Jack valiantly tried to evade his nightmare-inhabited fate. _"Da..." _he would moan, _"Dad, help me..." _But his father remained silent. He could not help him. He continued to watch, with each of his son's exhausted cries causing him to screw his eyes closed as though he were being struck repeatedly, until Jack finally plunged into a hellish slumber.

He remained frozen against the door of his cell, unaware that his tense grip on the bars was beginning to cause thin abrasions, dotted with tiny beads of blood, to appear on his palms as he stared at Jack's thin back, rhythmically rising and falling with each labored breath. After what seemed like an eternity, Teague relinquished his clasp on the bars and sank to the floor, his chains clinking in response. Carefully hefting his cherished guitar into his lap, he began to strum a gentle lullaby, one that he had written specifically for his wife. He closed his eyes as the quiet melody caused his heart to sink deep into his chest. Rosalynn would never forgive him for what he had done to Jack.

His fingers continued to play effortlessly as if they had a mind of own, seeing as their owner's thoughts were obviously elsewhere. Teague glanced toward the noticeably healthier figure of the sleeping child. Thanks to young Bill Turner and his willingness to disregard the rules, Jack had appeared to overcome the preponderance of his illness. After several days of real food, the lad had ceased his violent vomiting, and it had been, in turn, exchanged for a tolerable cough, as well as monstrous nightmares. Teague remained convinced that the lad's horrendous dreams were repercussion of having been alone for such a long time, and had argued prodigiously with the Turner boy to "unlock the bloody door." Mr. Turner, however, had remained stubborn (a very apologetic form of stubborn, but stubborn nonetheless), despite his growing friendship with the pirate captain and his miniature replica, and had denied the older man's dictates. He had already been reprimanded by his uniformed superiors for smuggling excess food into his pockets to deliver to the sickly child, and had no desire to be accused of helping the prisoners to escape.

"I'm awful sorry, Cap'n Teague, sir," Bill would say, "But as I'm 'bout the only one who ever comes down here, they'd know it was me what let you out, sir. I've got a girl back home, you see, and I'm not particularly fond of hanging anyways."

The pirate captain knew that Bill wouldn't be able to help him, but it was admittedly nice to have some company. The young deckhand would often sit down and simply babble away, about his home in Scotland, or about the girl he intended to propose to, or he would tell ridiculous fables to entertain Jack, whenever he could find time to do so. Bill's stories seemed able to outdo any sort of medicine or tonic, and Jack spent his time anxiously awaiting the sailor's next visit.

"Once upon a time," Bill would always begin.

The pirate captain, despite openly expressing his insightful, if generally sarcastic, opinions on the absurd fairy tales, found himself surprisingly appreciative of the young crewman and his inane folklore. Teague would smirk as Jack's eyes would grow wide and his jaw would go slack, attentively hanging on Bill's every word as he was mentally transported from the leaky brig into whatever sort of colorful setting that the young man would verbally paint with his bad grammar and inventive phrases.

"And they'd live happily ever after. The end." For whatever unfathomable reason, the Turner boy would always end his stories with the same string of words that left the pirate lord baffled at their ignorance. Yes, he knew that is was only glorified fiction, but honestly. Happily ever afters were exceedingly difficult to come by in the real world, to be perfectly blunt, and, more often than not, they would gradually fade away until they were not very happy after all.

How terribly ironic that he, a staunch skeptic of fantastical closings, had been graced with his own happy ending of sorts. His wife's lilting voice would begin to echo through his head whenever he would think such things, but would be hastily squashed as Teague argued that he was a pirate, and pirates do not believe in fairy tales. Look where his happily ever after had gotten him; a sticky cell with his son ensnared in his own nightmarish dreams, well away from his father's arms.

Happily ever after. Bah.

Teague opened his eyes to find that, as usual when he was engrossed in his guitar, he had lost track of time, judging by the overshadowing darkness that had swallowed the room. Jack had shifted in his sleep, as his limbs now lay sprawled carelessly across the floor, giving the illusion that he had lost consciousness in the process of attempting to create snow angels on the damp (and regrettably, snowless) deck. His lips were parted in a distinctly ungentlemanly manner, and would twitch slightly with each of his indelicate snores.

It was strangely calming; the steady creak of the ship's timbers along with the unabashed snoring of the young lad melded together in an unconventional, yet serene melody. It seemed as though the entire world was perfectly content to turn a deaf ear to the hectic, clamorous demands of its frenetic inhabitants and, for once, simply relax and listen to the reliable breathing of a six-year-old child.

Try as one might to will time to stand still so as to prolong a near-perfect moment, such moments have a troublesome tendency to eventually come to a close. The boy's breathing and reassuring thud of the waves against the ship were no exception to this age-old rule. The quietude was discourteously broken by a clatter of tumbling crates and a dull thunk as the intruding head of Cutler Beckett seriously violated the wooden stairs' personal space. To the stairs' credit, it had been the absentminded child who had been clumsy enough to trip over the stack of crates and proceeded to stumble backward into the steps, cracking the back of his skull on one unfortunate plank.

The boy hastily jumped to his feet, paying no heed to the painful throbbing at the back of his aching cranium. Teague smirked as the lad's eyes widened at the sight of the imprisoned pirate. Curious brown eyes locked with fearful blue ones, whose owner seemed to be petrified and physically unable to look away from the man sitting stiffly behind bars. The preteen abruptly broke the connection between stares as there came a muffled, _"Whooztha?" _from the cell behind him.

If possible, the twelve-year-old's eyes grew even wider, as if his lids were suddenly nonexistent, while he peered through the darkness towards the recently awakened child. A child! In the brig! There must have been some sort of mistake, a _child_ didn't belong down here, his father would surely-

"Who's he, D- I mean, _Cap'n?_"

The well-dressed boy's eyebrows raised in apparent comprehension. _Oh no, no, no. That won't do, _the pirate captain reasoned. He hastily got to his feet and took an intimidating step forward whilst reaching for an imaginary pistol that only he knew was not there. The desired effect was instantaneous; Cutler Beckett hurriedly turned and bolted for the stairs, briefly stumbling once again on the same step that had offended him previously. Teague chuckled as he dropped to the now familiar prison deck.

"Go back to sleep, Jackie."

* * *

><p>Why <em>wouldn't<em> his father lock a child in a cell? He had said so himself; he didn't care for anyone. But it was wrong. It was wrong, and Cutler was going to help him.

Even if he _was_ a pirate's boy.

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><p>Let's give the reviewers a big ol' round of applause, shall we? Heaven knows they deserve it! Thanks to all of you wonderful people that I have never met a day in my life but I've just got a feeling that you are all amazing people who are going to grow up into gorgeous millionaires! Love all of you, random strangers!<p> 


	8. Prayers

**A Pirate's Boy**

Chapter Eight- Prayers

_Author's Note- Just in case there was any confusion, no, I am not Walt Disney. Therefore I do not own any of the concentrated awesome that is Pirates of the Caribbean. Phew, glad I got that off my chest... :]_

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><p>Like his hypocritical father before him, Cutler Beckett had never been one for prayers. He had, on occasion, said grace for the family meal or offered a word or two for the soul of some estranged deceased relative. Yet today, the boy prayed earnestly for something that most would deem inappropriate, especially if one was voicing such improprieties to the great deity.<p>

Cutler Beckett prayed that his father would not kill him.

He opened his eyes and stared at his folded hands for a moment in rumination. Satisfied with his conclusion, he shut his eyes once more and rephrased his request. _Dear Lord, please let my father strangle me with his own hands instead of being sent to the gallows and be executed publically. Amen. _The paraphrase was completely necessary, as it seemed a might too much to hope that his father would _not_ murder him, after what he was about to do.

To the relief of his aching knees, he awkwardly arose from his kneeling position beside his bunk. After the looking glass confirmed that he appeared as decorous as ever (a bothersome voice whispering that it may be the last time he would see his handsome self again), he donned his gold-trimmed navy coat and set off into the great unknown. Or rather, his father's ship. For whatever abstruse reason, he was feeling tremendously melodramatic today. Perhaps it was his natural instinct of forthcoming havoc and calamity.

Anyway.

The child had established that _it_ would not be especially difficult to conduct. His father's ship retained a remarkable level of discipline, out of respect (and fear), for the lord in question, and so there had always been little incentive to take particular precautions in most areas. The brig was no exception, as the keys to its cells were blatantly displayed on a modest peg near the stairs. Were things to go according to plan, _it_ would be trouble-free.

Cutler was still not prepared to willingly accept the glaring fact that he was about to release one of the most treacherous criminals of the era, and conveniently replaced the aforementioned exploit in his mind with _it. It_ was for a good cause, he would chide himself. (What the cause was or its level of integrity remained uncertain, but there must have been a reason.) After all, he was going to free a child. A foul-smelling child, most likely, but a poor, defenseless boy nonetheless.

_I'm only saving a child (and a murderous, unpredictable, thieving criminal). That's all, _he reminded himself.

So engrossed was he in his thoughts that he gracelessly ran headlong into the broad back of one of the bustling deckhands. The man glanced around for the irritating dolt, but Cutler had long since slipped away into the night's shadows. If pressed to elaborate, each of the few crewmembers of the _HMS Mordaunt_ that had been out and about that night would have, quite truthfully, stated that he hadn't seen anything out of the ordinary, save for a glimpse or so of a thin figure darting about the deck.

It was without a great deal of trouble that Cutler Beckett found himself below deck in the darkened prison. He blindly felt his way along the wall, hoping to find the peg that bore the brig's key ring without making any noise. The boy grinned as his fingers discovered the sought after nail, although the smile was replaced with an expression of puzzlement when further poking and prodding revealed that the keys were nowhere to be found. He had come to the conclusion that he must have come across the wrong peg when voices from around the corner caused him to jump.

"…be crazy, Bill. You'll get yourself caught," a gruff voice echoed in the still air.

A youthful, familiar voice responded, "Yes, sir, but I'm 'fraid that once Lord Beckett questions you, he won't bother to spare either o' you from the gallows, regardless of whether you tell him whatever it is he wants to know. He's sent lil' kids to their deaths in the past, Cap'n, and they weren't even sons o' pirates!"

"I've had a sizable number of happenings with the gallows, boy, and I'm not dead yet."

"C-course, sir, but I'm 'fraid that Port Royal's not really like any other. Swarming with redcoats, it is. We'll be there in less than a day, so I figured that you best be headed off near Haiti. I heard there's that pirate port, T-Turtludoo or something."

The gravelly voice chuckled. "Tortuga, Bill. But how do you propose we get off this wretched ship without us being caught?"

Now, Cutler had always been an ordinary boy, one that appreciates a bit of mischief. Mischief, however, is not obliged to comply with anyone's agenda, and has a nettlesome proneness to turn up when and where it is least wanted. Young Cutler Beckett was not spared mischief's unpredictable ire, and the end result was particularly humorous to those other than the boy in question.

Upon taking a humble step forward, Cutler felt himself slipping in an imperceptible puddle of unidentified substance, and time seemed to slow to a grueling crawl. His feet flew from beneath him, leaving the child momentarily suspended in midair, not unlike the cherubic, pudgy angels that adorned the church of his hometown. Dissimilar to the carefully chiseled seraphs, the noticeably flightless boy was not immune to gravity, and collided loudly with the damp floor.

Even with his limited perspective from a few inches above the deck, Cutler had a nagging suspicion that there was an exceptionally small chance that his clamorous fall had gone unnoticed. He could practically feel their heads turning, despite the thick darkness. His final hopes were squandered as the anonymous sailor's footsteps alerted the boy that he was about to be recognized. Hurriedly springing to his feet, he made to dash up the stairs, mirroring the episode of a few nights previous.

"M-Master Beckett?"

Cutler grimaced, slowly turning to face the young crewman. To his great surprise, the deckhand looked terrified, as though he were staring into the face of his long-since deceased grandfather come back to haunt him. It was all relatively bewildering to the child. If there was anyone who should have been petrified with fear, it should have been him. His father was going to _kill_ him—

Wait.

Looking back into the young man's horrified face, comprehension gradually dawned on Cutler's. This sailor was trying to help the prisoner's escape. His gaze flickered toward the man's hand, which he quickly hid behind his back, although not quickly enough to conceal the key ring clenched tightly in his fist from the lad's view.

"You'll never get past the officers," Cutler began, smirking as his voice caused the deckhand to flinch. "Not looking like that." He gestured vaguely in the captive pirate's direction, earning himself a sarcastic eye roll from the prisoner.

"Y-y-yes, Mister Beckett, I mean, sir, I mean-"

"I'll help you,"

The sailor's eyebrows furrowed, obviously thinking that he had misheard the lord's son. "Pardon?"

"My father's a… a… idiot," the boy finished lamely, unable to come up with a legitimate insult. "And a little kid should not be down here."

There was a faint grumble from the cell to his right, "'m not lil.'"

Choosing to disregard the brief interruption, the twelve-year-old sidled past the baffled young man and produced a Navy uniform from behind a stack of crates. "I'm going to help you, _pirate," _Cutler hissed, "but I never want to see you again. Do I make myself clear?"

The chained captain smirked doubtfully at the lord's son, but tipped his hat to him in faux respect. "Inexorably, your nibs."

* * *

><p>"<em><strong>WHAT?" <strong>_

The lieutenant winced, and found himself abhorring his commander for assigning him to such a perilous task. Although, he admitted that Lord Beckett had taken the news exceedingly well, as he had refrained from hurling the menacing letter-opener that he had been holding, and for which the lieutenant was justifiably grateful.

"Gone, Lord Beckett, sir. They're gone."

Beckett was currently bent over his desk, his grip causing his knuckles to go white. He slowly looked upward, as though it pained him to do so, and hissed through gritted teeth, _"How?"_

The sailor looked down at his twiddling thumbs and chewed on the side of his cheek before responding. "One of the lifeboats has gone missing, my lord, as well as one of Officer Cobbald's uniforms and a few things from the galley. We are not certain of where they are headed, sir."

His murderous stare never wavering from the young man, Beckett released a strained whisper once again. _"How?"_

"Pardon, sir?" the man inquired, blinking rapidly in bafflement.

"_Who assisted him?" _Each syllable of the tense inquiry was drawn out, making it seem as if each word was a sentence of its own.

Had he not been raised in a strict, proper English home, the crewman would have been wont to utter some sort of offensive exclamation under his breath. Instead, he settled for biting his tongue and imagined his commanding officer in various abusive scenarios. Breathing deeply, the sailor replied cautiously. "William Turner is no longer aboard the ship, sir. And," he paused nervously, "Master Cutler is… er, under suspicions, as well."

By all appearances, Eldridge Beckett had not even heard the sailor's last remark. His face retained its mask-like grimace; scarcely moving at all, save for, perhaps, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. _"Bring him,"_ he said, almost inaudibly.

Hastily saluting his superior, the man marched out of the room, returning again with Cutler Beckett in tow a few minutes later. The lieutenant, noticing both father and son stiffen at the sight of one another, politely excused himself so as to give the pair some privacy.

There was a good minute or so of nothing more than threatening glares exchanged between the two Becketts. It was the senior that finally broke the noiselessness with a mere whisper. "What have you done?"

The younger of the two raised his chin defiantly. "I've done nothing," he stated bluntly.

Eldridge rose rigidly from his chair and began to pace leisurely before the bay window overlooking the cyan water. "It seems," he began calmly, "that there is a disturbing lack of pirates aboard this vessel. I was simply wondering whether you had any information regarding his mysterious disappearance."

Cutler's mind whirled, desperately trying to fabricate a credible explanation. "I went below deck that night for some…" he faltered. Some _what?_ "For some rope. I'm teaching myself to knot like the crew does." Mentally wincing at the nonsensical elucidation, he continued and hoped that his father would accept it as a boy's foolish nature. "So I had found myself a bit of it when I heard voices from around the corner. I went to take a look, but someone grabbed me. It was, er, Turner, I believe."

Raising his eyes to look at the back of his father's head, he supposed that he was doing fairly well if the elder had not commented yet. Encouraged, he went on with his fictitious tale. "He told me to be absolutely silent, or he'd… kill me." The child prayed that the story was still believable, but his hopes plummeted as his father turned around to face him.

"And what, may I ask, was he planning to kill you with?" Eldridge Beckett asked humorlessly.

"He had a pistol," the boy fibbed hurriedly. After the lord had returned his gaze to the cerulean sea, Cutler proceeded.

"He released the pirate and his son…" It was then that his voice cracked faintly, on account of recalling how utterly wrong the whole thing had been, to lock a child in a cell. "The pirate dressed in one of the officer's uniforms, which I suppose Turner had stolen. They hid the boy in a sack and carried it out to one of the lifeboats. It was dark and there weren't many men on deck at the time, and all three of them were able to get away, saying that they were taking the letters from the crew to the nearest port to anyone who asked."

It was a fairly conceivable story, if he did say so himself. It was, actually, entirely fact, for the most part, although it had been Cutler who had planned the event out, to the minutest detail. _The Turner boy would have never made it across the deck, _he twelve-year-old was beginning to imagine himself getting away with his egregious sins when his heart dropped into his stomach at his father's next inquiry.

"Ah," Lord Beckett said venomously, "Mr. Turner joined the criminal on his marvelous escapade, you say? I wonder… but no, it couldn't be!" He chuckled; an unnatural occurrence that did nothing to alleviate the tension.

Having worked up quite some trepidation, the boy ventured a question, "Sir?"

"It only seems as though, with Mr. Turner floating away in a lifeboat, that his pistol would have accompanied him, wouldn't you think? And yet, it must have stayed securely aimed at your person, Cutler, as it is clear that you did nothing to alert the crew of the prisoners' escape."

The preteen gulped comically. _Stupid, stupid, stupid,_ he berated himself. "I-I was rather shaken by the whole thing, Fath- I mean, sir. I was too frightened to say anything." The poor boy was immensely grateful that his hands were hidden from his father's view, as they were, no doubt, sweating and shaking beyond belief.

His father gave a minimal, curt nod, a sign that he had been, for the most part, convinced. The small gesture caused the child to slump in his seat in utter relief, reassured that his life was not nearing an untimely death. His jollity was abruptly cut short, as was customary, by his father's metallic, cold voice.

"While you were in the clutches of such a very dangerous pirate, not to mention six and nineteen-year old boys, you didn't happen to catch where it was that they were headed, did you?"

Cutler's eyes widened as he considered becoming a believer in luck and other such fantastical things, what with how fortunate he had been so far that day. Not only had the child gotten away with abominable crimes, but he had been given the opportunity to impress his father, and therefore, gain his trust. It was a very good day, indeed.

Feigning deep cogitation, Cutler tapped his lips reflectively with his index finger. He began thoughtfully, masking his smirk beneath a pensive mien. "I believe that they said something regarding… Tartloo? Turtlega?"

"Tortuga?" his father offered impatiently.

"Ah, yes! That's the one, Tortuga! The pirate said that it would take them a trifling day or two to reach it."

Eldridge Beckett grinned unpleasantly at the azure waves, topped with wisps of white, bubbling foam, all of which seemed to contrast starkly with the formidable, unforgiving hull of the _Mordaunt._ If given her way, Calypso herself would have rather had the nearly flawless surface of her green domain clear of such trivial blemishes as ships of men. This notion did not trouble Beckett, however, not being one to believe in such absurdities. And, not excluding, he was about to capture the infamous pirate lord once again. It was certainly enough to set any prideful man in an agreeable mood.

"Two days?" he contemplated. "Splendid."

Upon noticing a curious expression spread across his son's face, Eldridge graciously clarified.

"We shall be waiting for them."

* * *

><p>The reliable <em>plash<em> of the oars piercing the water's surface, aided by the gentle _thump _of the waves softly caressing the small skiff, attempted to lure Jack Sparrow to a much-needed sleep. _Splash, drip, thunk, splash, drip, thunk… _He disregarded his eyelids' complaints and struggled to keep them from folding closed on themselves, all the while stifling yawns that threatened to seduce him further into drowsiness. _Splash, drip, thunk, splash, drip, thunk…_

"Why don't you go to sleep, Jackie?" his father said sympathetically between pulls on the oars.

The lad jerked his head upwards as it began to nod off, although not for the first time. "No," he mumbled stubbornly, his speech slurred with somnolence.

Teague smiled to himself and shook his head, knowing full well that the boy would succumb to unconsciousness in good time.

Jack, however, had no intentions of doing so, despite his father's and Bill's encouragement. Glancing up at the pirate, if only so as to arouse his slowing mind, he found himself smiling foolishly. The six-year-old did not bother to take into account how his father was a criminal, but established that Captain Teague had, once again, saved the day. They were free, just like he had promised. _His da never broke his promises…_

There was a shuffle of feet and rustle of coats as Bill Turner took charge of the oars, while the pirate lord settled himself in the prow of the miniature vessel. There was another round of scuffling susurration as the thin boy groggily made his way towards his dad, tersely depositing himself in the man's lap. Jack buried his face in Teague's chest, inhaling the familiar, unostentatious scent of smoke, leather, and vanilla as the villain wrapped his worn coat around the child. Jack sighed contentedly, and finally fell asleep in his father's arms.

The nightmares were nowhere to be found.

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><p>There's an unsettling lack of Jack in this chapter, I know. Fear not, my readers, for there shall pirates galore in the future. Now, go on. Review! Thanks again, to my reviewers, whom I have no doubt are all beautiful super models or the inventors of some great necessity, such as pockets or soap. Press the review button, now.<p> 


	9. Blood

**A Pirate's Boy**

Chapter Nine- Blood

_Author's Note- The author wanted to try something different this time around. However, she could not, for the life of her, come up with some witty way to remind you all that she doesn't own anything. Heck, she's dirt poor. So please, do the starving artist a favor and do not mistake her for Jerry Bruckheimer. _

Hello again, dear readers! Look, everyone, look! My chapter! It's almost on time! I'll have you all know that I typed this little chestnut in all of its entirety on a six hour flight. That's how dedicated I am.

So dedicated, in fact, that I haven't the patience to pen an extremely intellectual and thought-provoking author's note, so I'll get to the point. Reviewers, you are, as per usual, the highlight of my otherwise mundane lifestyle. Your heartfelt responses are at the end. Oh, and to those of you who braved the world of emoticons in attempts to glimpse the next chapter, I was amazed. I, for one, had no idea that a Cookie Monster made of hyphens and asterisks could be so lifelike! Your artwork is now being displayed in some grand, foreign museum. That's how good it was.

As always, here's the incentive for those reviews that I crave more than a peanut-butter-chocolate dessert (which, unsurprisingly, I am craving at the moment). Write me a very prolonged, detailed comment and answer the following question to the best of your ability: **If nothing were to consist of a lack of everything, then what is the definition of anything?**

I have no idea regarding the answer to that one. I shall choose a winner based on originality.

Oh, I've almost forgotten!_** REVIEW! **_Dear me, I'm terribly sorry. The review werewolf hijacked my keyboard and typed that.

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><p>Now, there are an infinite number of trivial details that make up the infamous murderous thieves that have come to be known as pirates. One such attribute is, unsurprisingly, the sea. Another is dishonesty. But among all of these innumerable technicalities, one that rises above the majority of the others is this; never admit that you are frightened.<p>

Therefore, Captain Teague, a pirate in every sense of the word, had convinced all but himself that he had readjusted their course on account of his sagacity. Heading for Tortuga, he had clarified, was to be expected, and the Royal Navy would, no doubt, be anticipating their arrival. Ergo, it had been with all haste that the incongruous trio had turned their compact vessel away from the pirate-riddled port and toward an obscure little fishing municipality, with confidence that none of their undesirable adversaries would be expecting them in such a little-known town.

Ever trusting, both Bill Turner and Jack Sparrow had accepted the knowledgeable captain's proposition, partially because of his vast circumspection, and partially because neither of them knew what they were doing. It never crossed their minds that the pirate lord had suggested the modification out of fear.

But, in fact, fear was the most prominent reason for altering their route. Tortuga had seemed like an acceptable destination, however, a pestilential voice of a particular pirate's wife had echoed unrelentingly through said pirate's mind, stubbornly voicing her opinions on the villain-suffused village. Teague grimaced as he envisaged the deleterious wrath of his dearly beloved that would befall him, were she to discover that her six-year-old son had visited the abhorrent corsair haven.

And so it came to pass that, two days longer than anticipated and with noticeably thinner stomachs (having exhausted their meager food supply), the unconventional party docked in the quaint harbor of Port Toujours.

Teague deftly hauled himself out of the now leaking skiff, and extended a hand to the fatigued child. Jack stumbled onto the deck and teetered slightly, not being accustomed to solid ground. A firm hand steadied him, and kneeling on one knee so as to meet Jack's eye level, the murderer addressed his son in a solemn tone.

"Alright, Jackie, I know you're not stupid. You've seen what happens to the both of us when people find out who you are. Let's keep that little bit of particulars to ourselves while we're here, shall we?" Smiling at the boy's vigorous nod, he continued ominously as he stood up. "Just imagine how much trouble you'll be when you're grown."

The threesome made their way down the nearly vacant dock. They were quite a sight to behold to any disassociated passerby. A young sailor, clad in a secondhand, tattered Navy coat with curling brown hair; a tall, unsmiling man with dark dreadlocks framing his face, creased by premature wrinkles that made him appear twice his age; and a thin, sun-browned child, his tangled dark hair curiously reminiscent of his eldest companion. It was a peculiar scene, what with the three unkempt, malodorous figures silhouetted against the clear, blue Caribbean horizon.

The apparent leader of the unconventional contingent strode toward a portly man, who was the seeming steward of that certain portion of the docks. "Good day, sir," Teague began with artificial etiquette, only to be discourteously interrupted.

"Désolé, parlez-vous français?"

The pirate stifled an exasperated sigh, and rephrased his greeting. "Oui, bonjour, monsieur. Nous allons dock ici?"

"Salut, ce sera trois pièces pour mettre à quai votre bateau," the rotund man replied stiffly as he eyed the two disheveled boys with ill-concealed disdain. The pirate captain nodded, choosing to ignore the caretaker's skeptical glances, and responded cautiously, using a wide miscellany of hand gestures to convey his point. Despite their incognizance of the language, both Jack and Bill were capable of deducing that whatever their translator had offered; it had been deemed acceptable judging by the stout man's wide grin.

"Vous êtes trop aimable, monsieur!" the Frenchman exclaimed as he enthusiastically pumped Teague's gnarled fist up and down in a hearty handshake. The overseer tipped his hat once more to the pirate as he bustled past the group and busied himself with the unstable dinghy.

"What'd you say to 'im?" muttered an impressed Bill Turner.

"Found you a way back to jolly ol' Scotland, for one. And I, being the exceptionally magnanimous man that I am, gave him the boat." Teague lowered his voice to a gravelly murmur, "I must've neglected to tell the poor chap about the leak."

Due to the majority of the unheralded town's population consisting of sailors, it was not onerous to locate a nearby tavern. Teague mentally winced at his what his wife would have had to say about such a scenario, but he reasoned that, being the son of a pirate, Jack would have ended up in such an establishment at some point or another, and resolved that Rosalynn need not know about occurrence.

Jack stared about the dowdy pub in awe, while Bill Turner did so in dread. All qualms about the questionable façade of the pungent-smelling inn were abruptly forgotten as plates of indeterminate food items were ungraciously dropped in front of each of the ravenous escapees. The serving maid wrinkled her freckled nose in distaste as the three boorishly shoveled the mess into their mouths, not to be bothered with silverware. For a fleeting moment, the six-year-old child felt a pang of guilt at his lack of table manners for the sake of his mother, but any remorse was quashed as a warm biscuit found its way to his gravy-coated lips.

After each of the dishes had been emptied and tankards of rum drained by all (another inconsequential detail that Rosalynn need not find out about), the deckhand and child looked expectantly toward the pirate lord, unsure of what they were to be doing next. This was, undeniably, the first episode of their young lives in which they were fugitives from the law, and as the thieving captain was, unequivocally, highly experienced in homologous circumstances, it seemed appropriate that he serve as the educationist to the two.

Sensing the boys' inquisitive stares, the criminal removed his boots from the tabletop and directed his attention to the patient sailor. "All right, boy, like I said, I found you a ship heading for Stranraer that'd be happy to have you, so long as you earn your keep. I suppose you'll be able to find your way back to wherever 'tis you live from there, aye?"

The young crewman's face brightened. "Absolutely, Cap'n, sir. Thank you, sir-"

Waving off the man's stammered gratitude, Teague proceeded. "If I'm not mistaken, Mr. Turner, it's me what should be doing the thanking. Your ride'll be docking tomorrow morning eight miles from here. I suggest that you start headin' that way."

Bill stood, securing his tricorne atop his dark curls. "Thank you kindly, Cap'n Teague," he said sincerely, shaking the murderer's hand. "You very well might've made a pirate outta me." The wrinkled man smiled and offered a curt nod of approval.

"Much obliged, Mr. Turner."

Jack, who was valiantly striving to remain indifferent and businesslike, could not suppress the faint pout contorting his face at being ignored. To his childish delight, the newly proclaimed pirate turned his gaze toward the petulant boy.

Determined to remain phlegmatic, he extended his miniature hand and said, quite somberly, "Thank you, sir, for entertaining me in my time of indisposition." Bill was rather dumbfounded at the lad's vocabulary; _he_ certainly didn't know words like that. The boy's insouciant demeanor was instantaneously broken upon observing his older friend's bewildered expression, his moue stretching into an amused grin. "Thanks, Bill," he said genuinely.

The deckhand mirrored his young companion's smile. "I wouldn't be surprised to see you again, Captain Jack Sparrow."

Now, William Turner was by no means a psychic, or for that matter, even an intellectual thinker. Consequently, he had no attestation of what the future would hold for both he and the pirate's son. He didn't know that he was destined to wed the girl of his dreams. He didn't know that he would selfishly abandon his wife and four-year-old son. He didn't know that, in little over two decades, he would be referring to the child before him as 'Captain.' The fact that he would take part in an unmerited mutiny, designed to dispatch his future commander; that he would be callously lashed to a cannon and left to spend eternity silently rotting beneath the tumbling waves; that the boy who cherished fairy tales would sacrifice his own immortality and choose to save his, William Turner's, only son, his namesake…

He didn't know.

"Goodbye, Jack."

The former Marine-turned-pirate walked out of the tavern, for the first time in his life, brimming with hope. The setting sun bathed him and his surroundings in gentle, golden light, its lingering rays affectionately caressing the landscape as it kissed the tips of the glistening ocean waves adieu. A single reluctant shaft of luminescence dawdled in the young man's brunette locks, apparently quite content to illuminate his thick curls for at least a moment longer. But night was impatient, and the beam gradually faded to join its brethren beyond the horizon. When the welcoming darkness finally blanketed the picturesque seaside village, Bill Turner was already gone, not unlike the final fingers of that day's sunlight.

* * *

><p>"So, if Bill is going to Scotland to marry what's-her-face, are we going home?" Jack asked with such straightforwardness that only a child could achieve, his dark eyes innocently inquiring.<p>

"I wish we could, Jackie boy, but there's not many ships inclined to take an eight-thousand mile detour to drop a fugitive from justice at Madagascar, are there? Course, I'd make quick work of it, but I doubt you can swim that far." Teague vindicated as he steered his son toward the door, his hand planted firmly on the lad's shoulder. The pub was rapidly filling with objectionable characters, those of which were either drinking or drunk. Irresponsible and reckless as he was, the harum-scarum captain had never been keen on taverns after night had engulfed them in obscuring shadows.

Jack, on the other hand, found the buoyant, inebriated songs and the crapulous foolery of the tipsy men to be exceedingly amusing. He giggled as a highly intoxicated Frenchman stumbled into a solid wall, as though he hadn't even seen it (which he probably hadn't). The child's laugh was replaced with a justified, "Ow!" as his father tightened his viselike grip on the boy's arm. Hastening his pace so as to keep up with the infamous captain, Jack's free appendage was suddenly caught by an unfamiliar, begrimed hand and wrenched out of his father's grasp.

Startled, he found himself uncomfortably close to an unpleasant, sordid face. His captor's threatening leer was punctuated by gaping holes that yellowed teeth had vacated, his eyes glassy from his immoderate consumption of alcohol.

"Qu'avons-nous ici?" the man hissed nastily. His breath, which was tainted with the heady scent of grog, caused Jack to wrinkle his tan nose in disgust. The man clenched a fistful of the child's unruly hair in his thick hand, roughly jerking the boy's face upward and showing off his prize to his equally drunken friends as the lad gasped in pain and struggled against his captor.

"Regardez! Un peu de chasseurs, il l'est—" the feculent thug was tersely cut off by a thunderous _bang._

Jack flinched as a bullet messily embedded itself just above the man's left brow, the impact sending a shower of crimson beads and bits of skull and cerebral matter to spatter both the victim and the child. The boy looked on in horror as the macabre head wound began to emanate a viscous stream of dark liquid. The man's yellowed eyes widened in surprise before they froze and clouded over, his already cooling corpse collapsing to the floor with a nauseating thud. Jack, seemingly petrified, stared as the once-animate body continued to percolate thick vermilion fluid. _Blood,_ the child noted soberly, as though he were remarking on the weather or commenting on his preferred flavor of pie.

"Let's go, Jack," came a throaty mumble.

Evidently numb to the chaos surrounding him, the lad allowed himself to be guided between the numerous skirmishes that had broken out amongst the rum-soaked sailors and into the fortifying night air. A salt-tinged breeze playfully tousled the child's thick locks, attempting to entice him into a more agreeable disposition. The pleasant effect as a whole was rather nullified by the fact that Jack's unkempt tresses were mottled with grotesque bits of cranium and flecks of another man's blood.

The corsair's son looked up at his father, his trusting ebony eyes infused with confusion and desperate query. "You killed him." The boy said. It had not been a question, nor had it been an accusation. It had been an affirmation, simply to confirm that the grisly occurrence had been reality.

Teague bit his lip. The sight of his child dappled with blood was unlike anything the thief had ever braved, in all his years of experience. He felt horrendously helpless, and was, admittedly, not especially fond of the sensation.

"He was hurting you," he explicated simply.

Jack remained unblinking; his gaze neither incriminating nor frightened. Simply… puzzled. "You killed him," he repeated faintly.

His father's heart momentarily faltered. He'd just lost the boy's trust. Teague tentatively approached the distraught child, hoping against hope that his imprudent actions had not cost him a son. Wary as he had been of parenthood at first, he had accepted the responsibilities of a family, burdensome though they may be, and had unconsciously fallen in love with his diminutive facsimile. Jack Sparrow was, outwardly, entirely his father's child, while his ebullient charisma and witticisms, however, were matched only by his mum. And Captain Edward Teague, world-renowned malefactor, loved a four-foot-tall child more than the sea itself.

Jack barreled into his father's chest, and years from that night, if pressed to elucidate, the pirate lord would have recalled that he had never been so grateful to have the wind knocked out of him.

"Jackie, I have a terrible feeling that you'll grow up to be twice's good of a pirate as me," the villain started contemplatively.

"Three times," came the child's muffled retort.

Teague smirked. "If you're lucky. It's only right that you know that being a good pirate's got nothing to do with how many people you kill." The boy stiffened, but his father continued, regardless. "It's more about what you kill for. See now, I've snuffed anyone what badmouths my dear old mum. I've killed anyone who's wanted to hurt your mother, and the same goes for you, boy. There's a difference betwixt selfish killing and killing to protect the people that you love."

Jack squirmed out of his father's arms and smirked in a decidedly holier-than-thou sort of way. "So," he drawled knowingly, "You _looove_ me?"

The pirate lord scoffed. "Don't get cocky, Jackie," he chastised, teasingly cuffing the self-satisfied boy in the ear.

Jack smiled. It was close enough.

* * *

><p>Oh bother, I'm just full of short, slow-paced chapters, aren't I? I assure you, though, the next one (which I've already started, hooray for me!), is far more exciting. And dialogue is my nemesis. Especially French dialogue. Excuse me, I'm going to seethe in the corner...<p>

You guys are as cool as... polar bears. And that's pretty cool.


	10. Blessedly Ordinary

**A Pirate's Boy**

Chapter Ten- Blessedly Ordinary

_Author's Note- The author feels as though she should do something particularly noteworthy, seeing as she has, unknowingly, reached the tenth chapter of her story. And yet, her ingenious mind is just as devoid of innovation as ever, despite the special occasion. So she'll trust you visionary readers to have enough common sense to know that Walt Disney is most assuredly dead, and even if he weren't, he would have no business writing FanFiction. _

Alas, my intended one-shot has taken on a mind of its own and has officially and infallibly reached Chapter Ten. I fear that I no longer have control over this once-tame story, and thus, we have come to the point where my overexposure to Tim Burton movies and one-too-many times listening to the Sweeney Todd soundtrack is beginning to effect my writing, much like a festering parasitic growth. Golf claps to those of you who pick up on my subtle Burtonesque tributes.

Although I'm sure you are all expecting some idiosyncratic witticism in homage to such a distinguishing juncture, I'll be honest. I'm getting rather benumbed by these lengthy author's notes, so let us carry on. Responses at the end, thanks to reviewers, yadda yadda yadda. Do forgive me, I really do love you all, but I trust that you've deciphered how these things work at this momentous point in time. Leave a comment and tell me your favorite movie quote if you want a glimpse at Chapter Eleven.

That's all fine and dandy. Go on, now. Read to your heart's content.

* * *

><p>To say that Frank Whitley was displeased to find his felonious acquaintance standing presumptuously upon his doorstep, a trademark smirk plastered across his face, would have been an understatement of scandalous proportions. It would have been more suitable to say that Frank Whitley was nothing less of livid.<p>

"'Ello, Whitley!" greeted Teague with infuriating cheeriness, sidling past the immobile man and ushering himself into the modest house. Whitley, a thin sailor with flaxen hair and untidy beard, opened his mouth in protest, but nothing more than a wordless croak escaped his throat.

"So nice of you to let an old friend stay the night, Whitley," came the pirate's voice from somewhere in the kitchen, followed by a clattering clangor. "Bugger."

Whitley folded his hands in a silent prayer, pleading for the patience to refrain from strangling the trespassing captain. He hesitantly peered into the unpretentious kitchen, biting his tongue in apprehension of what he would find there. Teague kicked at a frying pan in irritation, sending it skittering across the wooden floorboards.

"What'd you do?" mumbled the disgruntled host, stooping to return the motley of pots and pans to their respectful homes.

"Your cupboard's broke," came the elementary reply. The response, however, was not voiced by the familiar rasping tenor, but instead, by the clear voice of a child. Whitley glanced up from a newly dented kettle in his hands to a young boy, peeping timorously from behind Teague's leg.

The man furrowed his brow in poorly disguised bemusement. "Who're you?"

Jack glanced up at his father, unsure of the riposte that he should give. Seeing the questioning look, Teague responded for the boy. "New cabin boy. Found 'im panhandling in Tortuga."

Whitley's eyes narrowed as his gaze alternated between the two, apparently still mystified. "He sure as heck looks like you."

The pirate shrugged disinterestedly. "Go find yourself somewhere to sleep, Smithy," he said, giving the child a firm push out of the kitchen. Thankfully, 'Smithy' complied, without any objections regarding his atypically timely dismissal.

The thin man spared the boy a fleeting smile as he left, but as soon as the lad was out of earshot, the intruded-upon sailor whipped his head around and glared spitefully at his unwelcome visitor. "What do you want, Teague?"

The captain feigned hurt, clutching his chest and gasping in indignation. "Such harsh words from the man whose arse I've saved on many an occasion!"

The iniquitous man's theatrics seemed not to daunt Whitely, who retained his scowl. "What are you doing here?" he repeated, unsmiling.

"Never took you to be the stupid type," the thief retorted, "so I wager that you can figure out, by my evident lack of a ship, that I need yours."

Whitley fidgeted nervously under the pirate's indefatigable stare. "I sold her, a year ago."

"Don't lie, mate, I saw her in the harbor when we docked. Only'll need it for a couple of months, Whitley, just long enough to get me own back."

The blonde man stifled a snigger, knowing full well that such a thing could warrant him a broken nose. "What happened to the _Lady?_"

"Come on, boy. More than half the people I know want to kill me. Use your imagination."

Not being able to argue with such logical thought, Whitley exchanged the current subject for a more personal one. "Teague, I'm no pirate. I make a living lawfully and decently. Why should I chance a walk to the gibbets for helping you when I could be living happily ever after with Line?"

The criminal's dour expression cracked into a slight grin. "D'you ever end up marrying your pretty little Madeline?" he inquired, not unkindly.

His expression softened briefly, but the young man hastily masked it. "Yes sir. Come next winter I'll be a father myself." He allowed himself a complacent smirk. "During your stay I suppose you'll be able to give me a few suggestions on such matters."

"Knew you weren't stupid," Teague murmured under his breath.

Whitley nodded approvingly. "Does Rosie know he's with you?"

Scuffing his boot demurely (an unorthodox behavior for the prestigious lawbreaker), the captain hummed his vague confirmation, not willing to meet his friend's stare.

"Come again?"

Shooting the doubtful man a contemptuous glare, Teague groaned, "More 'r less. If you won't let me take the _Étoile_**, **I'll just ask Line. She'll help me out, for Rosie's sake, at least."

Whitley had opened his mouth, preparing a shrewd retort when a soft gasp pervaded the momentarily silent air. Both men turned their attentions to the doorframe, where a petite redhead stood barefooted, her fair hand raised to her lips in surprise.

"Frank? Saviez-vous qu'il y a un petit garçon de dormir sur le canapé?" She queried, her voice cracking from lack of use.

Her husband laughed_, _lightly kissing the top of her disheveled hair. _"_Oui très chers. N'a-t-il déjà familières à vous?"

Madeline's eyes widened, seeming to notice the other man in the kitchen for the first time. "Teague?" she said hesitantly at first, but a smile of recognition contorted her sleep-deprived features. "Teague! Oh mon dieu, it's you!"

The young woman enthusiastically threw her arms around the pirate's torso, much to his discomfort. "Good to see you too, Line," he chuckled, awkwardly patting her back.

Realization suddenly overtook the French girl, and she pointed accusatorily at the villain. "He's _your _son, on the couch! What's his name? How old is he? Oh my goodness, is Rosalynn here as well?" she rambled, quivering with scarcely suppressed glee.

The dark-haired man gripped the ecstatic woman by the shoulders, keeping her from bouncing off the ground in euphoria. "Not to worry, love, there'll be plenty of time for questions," he said, grinning as her face fell in childish disappointment. "In fact, I've got a few that I might be asking you, as well. When did this weak-kneed rogue finally work up the courage to marry his long-time sweetheart? And I see you're starting a family of your own. Good lord, _what_ would Rosie say?"

She waved aside his inquiries nonchalantly. "Oh, Teague, won't you stay the night? Please do, your son's already asleep, in any case," she pleaded, ignoring her husbands feeble protests.

Looking past the woman's hopeful face to smirk triumphantly at the sailor, Teague replied regretfully. "I'm deeply impressed by your limitless benevolence, darlin', but what I truly have a need for, at the moment, is a ship."

"Why don't you take the _Étoile_?" Madeline asked, nonplussed that the solution had not been obvious.

Feigning sudden recognition, the pirate beamed at his young friend. "Why, you're a bloody wonder, my dear! How is it that I didn't think of that?"

Once again disregarding her husbands disapproving scoffs, the blithe woman tugged at the thief's sleeve, leading him toward a couch that had, more likely than not, seen better days. So engrossed was she in her one-sided conversation that she very nearly sat on top of a snoring Jack Sparrow, but thankfully, Madeline caught herself before such an unfortunate circumstance could occur.

The French lady raised her fingers to her mouth, so as to suppress a gasp of delight. As her giddiness resided, she slowly lowered her delicate hands to her heart and genuflected beside the divan, softly brushing the child's hair from his sleeping eyes. "Mon peu d'amour," she cooed, gazing at the grimy boy as though he were the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

Smiling tenderly (a rather unusual substitution from her normally loquacious demeanor), the young woman glanced up at the captain. "He looks like you," she observed gently, "What's his name?"

"Jackie," the father replied, growing slightly stultified of the subject, "Jack Sparrow."

"Jack Sparrow," Madeline repeated, her grin widening as the name rang pleasantly in the air. "Just like his mamàn."

Teague smiled faintly as memories flashed through his mind. His wife and the red-haired woman mocking him as he would explain humorous-sounding nautical terms such as _mizzen mast _or _binnacle_; Madeline allowing her friend to sob into her shoulder when her egregious lover had broken her heart yet again; the two heads huddled together in hushed tête-à-tête, breaking apart to spare surreptitious glances at their inamoratos, much to the bewilderment of the young men. The pirate blinked, clearing the episodes from his head as he mumbled something unintelligible about sleeping on the floor.

Madeline placed a fond kiss on the tip of the child's nose, giggling as he languorously batted at the unidentified tickle. Finding her way to Whitley's waiting arms, she was greeted with a similar action as he pecked her freckled nose, lowering his forehead to rest against hers.

"Six months," he whispered, "And you'll have your very own."

She smirked. "I always did like the name Jack,"

* * *

><p>Jack gradually emerged from his blissful unconsciousness, not fully, of course, for sleep was still weighing heavy upon his eyelids, but only enough for his mind to register his milieu. His disoriented thoughts paused, confused. There was no <em>thump <em>of the waves, no rocking of the ship, no damp, uncomfortable deck beneath him. Why, his head was resting on what, but… a _pillow?_

Paying no heed to his fatigued body's wishes to remain beneath the warm, beguiling covers, the boy hastily sat up with hopeful exclamation of, "Mum?"

An invidious voice in the back of his head voiced his covert phobias, but Jack, ever optimistic, patiently strained to hear his mother's reliable response.

Of course, there was none.

As his eyes began to adjust to the dim pink light of the rising sun, his heart sank at the unfamiliar house as it became visible. It was, irrefutably, _not_ the Madagascan abode that the boy had come to call home. True enough, it didn't have an unpleasant atmosphere, far from it, in fact. It was a quaint little house, the type that was relatively tattered around the edges, but welcoming and congenial nonetheless. Undeniably, however, it wasn't _home._

Jack stumbled into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes with grimy fists, only to be startled by the sight of a woman with her back turned toward him. The sleeves of her unembellished dress were indelicately rolled about her elbows, her forearms immersed in a soapy basin. The girl softly hummed to herself as she scoured a filthy pot, completely oblivious to the young intruder. Sighing, she dried her dripping hands on a weathered rag and turned to select another pan in need of cleaning. Her breath hitched in her throat at the sight of her unanticipated companion, but she promptly broke into a warm smile upon recognizing the child.

"Good morning, Jack," she warbled in her French accent, spinning to replace the towel on its peg, sending her cotton skirts awhirl. "Are you hungry, love?" Despite his potent desires to reply honestly and confirm that yes, he was _very_ hungry, Jack remained taciturn. His hesitancy did not go unnoticed by the sprightly woman, and she raised a bubble-bedaubed palm to her forehead in realization.

"Oh dear, where are my manners? I'm sorry, pet, I've not introduced myself." The redhead laboriously bent forward and extended a damp hand, which Jack cautiously took. "I'm Madeline Whitley, and my very dearest friend in the entire world is Rosalynn Teague."

She tittered good-naturedly as the boy's brows shot up in wonder, his eyes perspicuously revealing his thoughts: _That's my mum's name!_

Further conversation was abruptly cut short, however, by an uncouth yawn and a grumbled, "Morning." Jack turned to find the tall man (Whitley, he recalled vaguely) and the pirate collapsing into rickety chairs encircling an analogously rickety table.

"One more day, Jackie, and we'll be going home." Teague said with a grin. "Mr. Whitley, charitable man that he is, is letting us use his little scintilla of a ship before your mum goes mad with worry over you."

Whitley glared at the captain, apparently having second thoughts about his benevolence. "'S'not too late for me to change my mind, Teague," he groused.

"Oh taisez-vous, Frank! If you aren't giving them the damné naviguer, je suis sûr que l'enfer sera!" Madeline castigated, breaking off midsentence so that her unladylike profanities were somewhat dissembled by her native tongue.

Jack decided that he liked Madeline.

The remainder of the day was, arguably, one of the more enjoyable periods of the child's adventure. Granted, the majority of his time away from home had been occupied by vomiting and lethargic ennui, so it was to be expected that a relatively unremarkable day be seen as a benison. The boy took a well-overdue bath (and while, under normal circumstances, he would have protested fervently, he submitted willingly to his watery fate), fed the chickens in the front yard, and held an inspiring discussion with his newfound friend over baby names. Jack's contributions were, after much deliberation, Stephen and Steven, to which Madeline had pronounced wholeheartedly to be wonderful names.

As culmination of the near-perfect day, Jack found himself sitting atop a picturesque cliff, hanging precariously over the fathomless azure sea, with his dark head settled securely against his father's chest. Madeline enthusiastically pointed out the mélange of tiny buildings that stretched below them, identifying those from the barber to the baker, as her paramour looked on admiringly. The sun, having taken on a winsome cerise hue, began to sink behind the orange-tinged waves, suffusing the on looking foursome in a merry roseate glow. Jack smiled, envisioning his mother observing the very same sunset from halfway around the globe.

Tomorrow he was going home.

And such were the thoughts that he fell asleep with as the inside of his eyelids began to swim with dreamy images of green waves and a mother's lullaby…

_Home…_

"Jack, wake up!"

The child was nebulously aware of tense fingers folding themselves around his thin arm and vigorously shaking him, attempting to rouse him from his slumber. He responded by muttering something incoherent and sinking deeper into his pillow, striving to ignore the intruding agitator, but his endeavors were thwarted as he was hoisted from his enticing blankets and onto his bare feet. Opening his somnolent eyes, if only so as to identify the perpetrator, Jack found himself staring into the face of a distraught Madeline. Haphazard tendrils of her ginger hair framed her face, dark eyes all but screaming with hysteria. Her hands, a pale blue in the moonlight, gripped the child's shoulders, as though clinging to a lifeline.

"Jack," she hissed, her voice cracking with panic, "You need to wake up. They've found you. You need to go." The lad's forehead wrinkled in incomprehension, but he hadn't even opened his mouth before the mother-to-be continued. "I'm sorry, mon peu d'amour, you must leave." She pressed her lips to his forehead, cupping his tan cheek in her trembling hand. "Say hello to your mamàn for me, won't you?"

"Time to go, Jackie," called Teague as he slipped into his embroidered coat and hastily grabbed his son's wrist, leading him hurriedly toward the back entryway. Craning his neck, the boy saw Whitley throw open the front door and dart out into the night to face whatever unseen foe was awaiting him. Jack glimpsed a flicker of lanterns and a fleeting flash of red fabric before the heavy door fell back into its wooden frame with a leaden _thunk._

"Da?" Jack whispered as he stumbled out of the beaten threshold.

Teague held a misshapen finger to his lips, indicating for the child to hold his tongue and to follow his father. The pair prowled along the perimeter of the seaside cottage, keeping chiefly to the shrouding shadows until a particularly stentorian voice echoed in the salt-tinged wind, causing the absconders to go rigid.

"I've told you, there's no bloody pirates in my house!"

"Stand aside, Whitley!" The shout was accompanied by a cracking noise and a dull grunt, followed by synchronized footfalls as the boot-clad soldiers inundated the humble dwelling. "Show yourself, pirate!"

From his limited perspective, Jack watched as the eerie figure of the French woman scurried into the moonlight, her pale skirts giving her the appearance of an elegant ghost. She emitted a strangled gasp as she glimpsed the limp form of her husband, swiftly dropping to her knees and cradled the bleeding man's head to her chest as she murmured reassuring phrases in her original language, all the while choking back tears. Abruptly, she turned to the uniformed soldiers lingering on the doorstep and launched her delicate form at them, blindly beating an unfortunate man with her fists.

"You bâtard!What did you _do _to him? Brûler en enfer vous Impies fils de chiennes!" she screamed, relentlessly cudgeling the redcoats with all of her might.

"Silence, wench!" ordered the seeming leader of the contingent. His rebuke was rewarded with a weighty clout to his jaw from the incandescent woman. The wigged officer's eyes narrowed maliciously as he wiped a rivulet of blood from his lip, while ominously withdrawing an indeterminate object from his baldric.

_Bang._

Time slowed to a laborious crawl. A scarred hand clamped itself over Jack's mouth, smothering the boy's heartbreaking scream and pulling his face into a strong chest, obscuring the child's vision. But it was too late. Jack had already seen the detrimental lead sink into the woman's heart, a cruel, dark stain blossoming across her bosom and leaking precious ruby beads onto her silvery skirts. Madeline crumpled to the ground; her blood mixing with her husband's as the two silently succumbed to their lesions, leaving their hollow bodies anemic and pallid.

Teague hugged his son to himself, watching through dry eyes as loathsome inky liquid odiously blemished his young friend's ashen faces. The pirate's mien darkened as a red-clad soldier contumeliously kicked at Whitley's lifeless limb before following his ilk into the now-vacant chalet. Hefting a limp Jack over his shoulder, the captain briskly hastened away from the once-jovial little house, pausing for but a moment to dolefully salute the colorless twosome before clandestinely continuing toward the unacknowledged docks.

Silhouetted against the indigo sky stood the _Étoile_, its masts piercing the starless horizon, giving it the appearance of a skeletal hand reaching for the unattainable heavens. Peering around warily and protectively tightening his grip on the child, Teague noiselessly made his way up the gangplank of the unostentatious schooner, praying that the small ship would be reasonably facile to manage, considering there was naught but a single crewmember (the six-year-old was not taken into account).

Teague indelicately set his enervated son in a decrepit crate of glistening fish, hushing the boy as he began to protest against such seating arrangements.

"We're almost free, Jackie," the pirate whispered, his gruff tone laced with ersatz hope as he briefly tousled his son's uncombed locks.

"Almost." The unannounced voice was deep and harsh, tainted with explicit loathing. As though such a hostile greeting had not been, on its own, enough to unnerve the weathered captain, the comment was accompanied by the metallic cocking of a pistol, perturbingly near to the dreadlocked thief's head. Teague turned, after a moment's hesitation, to find himself staring into both the barrel of a gun and into an unsightly uniformed soldier's leering face. Unwittingly taking a pace backward, thus lessening the distance between his son and himself, the malefactor glanced about, perceiving no less than ten sailors emerging from the opaque shadows. Silver bayonets glistened sinisterly in the few lingering rays from Port Toujours' late-night torches, each pointed forbiddingly at the pirate and child, daring either of them to attempt some erratic getaway. The unerring beat of the salt-inculcated waves and the whispering sound of skin sliding nervously against metal were the sole noises to permeate the wind.

The tension was abruptly disrupted by an exasperated groan. Young Jack threw his thin arms above his head unnecessarily melodramatically and let his face drop into his hands, expressing through ingenuous theatrics what both he and his father were thinking.

_Not again._

* * *

><p>I've said it before; I'll say it again. You people are the fizzle to my izzle.<p> 


	11. The Storyteller

**A Pirate's Boy**

Chapter Eleven- The Storyteller

_Author's Note- There's no way that anyone of importance would have taken so long to update, so I think we can all conclude that even if Pirates of the Caribbean did belong to me, I'd be deemed unfit to care for it._

School. That's all I have to say. I hate to deprive anyone who bothers to read this of another moment of his or her amazingly interesting life. Perhaps I'll add more entertaining of an author's note at a later date, though seeing how nicely I handle promises, I'd say it's unlikely. Regrettably, there shan't be responses to reviews at the end of this chapter, my dears. This is not to say that I haven't read, appreciated, and prized each and every one of them. The reason is simply that you ought to be fairly eager to put an end to this hellishly long gap between updates. For this, I apologize most sincerely, I really do. If you'd like a reply, tack on the phrase **Reverse the polarity of the neutron flow **to the end of your review and I'll gladly have a long and winded chat with you over the private message system. But enough stalling. Let's get on with it, why don't we?

I'm such a troll—one more thing! I'd just like to forewarn you all that this chapter is primarily a flashback. Ergo, I'd like to bring light to a few paltry points. One is that young Edward Teague has a sweet little _brother_ named Jack. Womanizer though he may be, Teague was not makin' babies at sixteen. I'd like this to be clear. Secondly, there is a dreadfully confusing flashback _within _a flashback that I've tried my best to make plain with those cute little XXXs. Third, this chapter is not rated T for, let's say, Tinkerbell. It is rated for Teen, because although I know you all to be very brave people, it contains some homicidal insane people and sticky murders. Finally, this segment is dedicated to George Weasley, because let's face it. Fred gets all the glory.

* * *

><p>He supposed that perhaps his mother had been right. Maybe she had been justified in proclaiming him to be entirely bonkers, or having gone round the bend, or being mad as a hatter. After all, wouldn't any lucid individual be petrified with terror at the thought that they were currently sailing toward an illustrious British fort where they would be hanged within a fortnight?<p>

But no, Jack Sparrow was not fearing for his life, nor was he specifically put out by the fact that he was being held within the belly of an unfamiliar frigate (again). In fact, he may have not minded the aforementioned much at all if he hadn't been so _dreadfully_ bored_. _

True enough, the restless child had admitted that the accommodations had improved substantially since his last experience in a prison cell. He and the weathered captain had been perfunctorily thrown into the same cramped unit, but it was decidedly uninteresting nonetheless. Teague passed a good deal of the time flat on his back with his boots propped against the miry walls of the timber ship, apparently lost in thought. Otherwise, he slept. These activities, unsurprisingly, were emphatically declared to be ridiculously dull by the fidgety boy. And naturally, his father paid no heed to Jack's grouses, vexing the six-year-old all the more.

In a despairing attempt to free himself from tedium's chokehold, the child had taken to devising a potpourri of amusements for his entertainment. None of them, however, were fulfilling their purposes of diverting his thoughts from the horrible monotony of life in the dark brig. Imaginary chess against himself, teaching Mary Lou (a gray slug that he had proclaimed his pet) arithmetic, and reciting curious words that he found humorous (_tommyrot_ and _codswallop_ being among them) could not hold the attention of the dark-haired juvenile for much longer than a quarter-hour or so.

A counting game, then. Though not exceedingly rewarding, it was certainly a welcomed lull in the lack of excitement. Not being able to count past the number thirty, Jack had grown weary of the exercise relatively quickly after counting each bolt in the iron door several times over, and had hurriedly reversed tactics. It goes without saying that it was _far _more fun to count the beads in the slumbering pirate's tresses than planks or nail heads. Teague's rhythmic snores added another droll component to the sport. Each puff caused the boy to hastily withdraw his hand from the miniature silver crucifix (trinket number eight, if he had counted right), giggling all the while—until such antics ceased to strike him as comical anymore. There was but one thing to do, needless to say, and that was to add another degree of danger to the activity. In retrospect, Jack should have realized that determining _exactly_ how many hairs the murderer's eyebrows consisted of was likely not the cleverest scheme to carry out. Of course, the child did not have much time to reflect upon his wrongdoings, as a newly awakened and very startled Teague had spastically thrashed out and clouted the unsuspecting boy in the jaw, sending a front tooth skittering across the sodden floor.

Jack sullenly rubbed his bruising cheek at the memory, though he was tenably proud of the recently acquired hole in his grin. He sat in the corner for a moment of atypical quietude, contentedly listening to the muted _pitter-patter _of the feathery raindrops as they danced against the flanks of the ship. The boy sighed and allowed his head to drop backward against the wooden wall, contemplating what his father's reaction might be if he were to start singing—loudly. Images of another bloody gap in his smile flitted through his mind as he glanced toward the corsair's dejected-looking figure. The pirate lord lay on his back, sable tendrils of matted hair splayed across the floor in a pathetic array, his gnarled claws erratically gesticulating in the air as though narrating some inaudible fable. His lips were mouthing his thoughts, his brows furrowed in apparent frustration. Jack looked on in bemusement, trying to suppress his sniggers.

"Da?" he finally called after a minute of watching the criminal soliloquist arguing with himself. The man started slightly at the voice; momentarily redirecting his attention toward the child before letting his head fall back to the floor and continuing his internal conversation. "What are you doing?" Jack asked again, crawling on all fours until his boyish face hovered over his father's scowling one. "Why are you talking to yourself?"

"I'm not talking to myself," Teague lied in an irritated voice, crossing his arms petulantly over his chest.

"Yes you are. Are you going crazy? Mum always said you were a little bit crazy. Old Mrs. Lee always said so too, but she mostly called you a damnable son of a b—"

"Jackie!" the older man reprimanded, abruptly sitting upward and knocking his skull against his son's in his haste. (_Ouch_es were issued from both parties.) Teague sighed and massaged his forehead. "I was thinking about how to get out of here."

Oddly enough, the pirate was, at least for once, being perfectly honest. He had nearly exhausted any and all ideas of escape by that point, his thoughts ranging from improbable to utter cockamamie. The majority of his half-fabricated plans would have been entirely plausible, had it not been for the unforeseen complication of a four-foot-tall child. Most of his concepts resulted in an unscathed captain giving account to his wife as to how young Jack had come to meet his untimely demise. And dying, Teague had resolved, was not an option, specifically not for a boy who had yet to reach his seventh birthday. As a whole, it was a proper reason to be in a disagreeable mood. But Jack, being both he and the innocuous age of six, did not recognize the criminal's dour disposition and persisted to act as what some might deem, let us say, _bothersome_.

"So, did you think of anything?" the child asked, blinking guilelessly up at the murderer, genuinely curious. "Because I was thinking too. When we get hunged—I mean hanged—I'll just hold my breath really good so I don't choke and die when I drop, you know? And then I'll climb up the rope and untie me and you and everyone else, y'know, those smelly redcoats, will be so surprised that they won't know what to do, because they never saw'd a kid like me be so smart. So then we'll go down to the docks and get another boat and send a letter to Mum and tell her to come and find us in, um, Hungaria or whatever, right Dad? I'll be a hero and Mum'll be so happy to see us again, and we'll live happily ever after, just like in Bill's stories! Hey, and then you can take me back to Scotland to see Bill too, could you? Get it, Dad? Da? Da, I bet you never thought—"

"JACK!" Teague barked, having finally expended his patience. "We aren't going to _get_ out of here! We're not going to _go_ home! There's not gonna be a _happy ending! _And if you're _still _too thick to get it, we're going to be _dead_ by next week! You're not going to _see_ your mum again!"

Jack, for a change, was stunned into silence. Surely, his father had misspoken. "But I thought you could do anyth—"

"Well, you were _wrong_, boy." The older man snarled spitefully. He glowered for a moment at the pitch-coated floorboards, his anger slowly draining from his person as he seethed. Gradually, his opium-addled mind registered the consequence of his outburst; although it _was_ chiefly truthful, it was certainly not the most appropriate thing to have said to a child. Teague frowned and kneaded his temples with ringed fists. His heart sank as he became aware of the actual content of his choleric words. "Cor, Jackie, I didn't mean to… I wasn't really…"

"Will you tell me a story?" Jack asked abruptly.

Pockmarked forehead wrinkled as Teague tried to make sense of his son's sincere request. "What?"

"Tell me a story, Da," Jack repeated, his voice quivering only slightly, "Tell me about… about lots of things. About your adventures and pirates and Mum, too."

The pirate opened his mouth, a skeptical retort preparing to make itself known, when he thought better of it. He'd already snapped at the boy once that day; no need to make things worse. Thoughtfully fingering a bead in his hair, Teague began hesitantly. "Once upon a time," he started, "There was a stupid kid named Edward."

* * *

><p>Edward Teague was not unlike any other sixteen-year-old boy of Britain. He would swagger down the cracking streets, mob of admirers in tow. He was terribly inept around pretty girls, no matter how waggish and canny he thought himself. He and his companions would thieve small cakes from the blind baker on Westgate Street, chuckling merrily at their own deviousness as they fled while an impressive throng of the old man's well-chosen curses trailed after them. On Sundays, Edward and his brothers would stick bits of chalk or twigs into Mrs. Crimmons' (who sat in the pew preceding his family's) elephantine blonde wig, once managing to lodge a sizable silver fork between two artificial curls.<p>

His fellow miscreants held Edward, as both the cleverest and the tallest of his company, in quite high regard. The younger children took any and all things that their idol would say to heart, regardless of whether the witticism was actually worth noting or not. Those who could boast of their friendship with the boy in question did so liberally, often receiving their own brand of prestige simply because of their admirable relations. The esteemed teenager's fame became so widespread overtime that the word _Teagueish_ was admixed to the youth of Canterbury's vocabulary, only to be used when someone had done something particularly exemplary. Young Edward Teague ought to have felt very much like The King Of The World—Capital Letters Of Importance and all. And yet, such a title could not have been much further from the truth.

"Ed? Ed?" a dark haired child tugged insistently at his eldest brother's sleeve, awaiting some sort of acknowledgement. "Ed?"

"What? What could it possibly be, Jack?" Edward snapped, brusquely jerking his cuff from the boy's fingers.

"Can you stay home today?" Jack implored.

"No."

"Please, Ed? I don't want to stay home by myself!"

"You won't be by yourself, stupid," the older boy said impatiently, untangling himself from his brother's arms that had wrapped around his left leg, "George and Cletus and Willem'll all be here."

Jack moaned in frustration, "But I _hate _Cletus! He _always _pounds on me! And Willem thinks it's funny and George never stays home anymore anyways!"

Edward snorted, "Oh, that's right. George has to keep that awful Fellings girl from getting lonely every hour of the day. Poor bloke must be too handsome for his own good."

At that moment, a gangly redhead deftly clambered through an open window, a pathetic bouquet of weedy dandelions clutched tightly in his fist. He somberly patted Jack on the shoulder as he passed and said seriously, "It's true. To be _this_ attractive is a helluva lot of work." He then proceeded to shove his older brother and taunted, "And _you. _Don't call Emily awful just 'cause you scare off every girl you talk to." George dodged Edward's customary return shove and took off laughing.

Jack, choosing to ignore his other sibling's interruption, slumped theatrically against his brother's form. "_Puh-leeeeease, _Ed! _Please!"_

The firstborn had been, by this time, quite fed up with the six-year-old's groveling. He indignantly propelled the boy from him and said querulously, "_No, _Jack! If you're so lonely, go take care of Mum or something!"

The child's dark eyes widened, appalled at his role model for insinuating such a caustic subject as their mother. Helena Teague was, to quote the eavesdropping housewives that lined the remainder of Burnaby Street, a horrid old loony. Her sons, being Teagues, would reiterate doggedly that she was nothing more than humbly unusual. But then the childish taunts between young hoodlums would evolve into a shameless war of fully-fledged insults, which, in turn, would progress into a vehement fistfight, and the Teague boys would conclude the day with bloodied lips and broken noses—and the family honor upheld, of course. Yet, even the brothers, despite their great defensiveness of their curious parent, each knew that there was something incontestably wrong with Mrs. Teague.

Just short of a year prior, Canterbury had been stricken with a grisly strain of influenza. More than half of the citizenry had been afflicted. Though not typically lethal to all but the especially old or the especially young, the illness left several sufferers blind or enfeebled, but still, very much alive. The Teagues, however, by means of either the unnumbered Hail Mary prayers or the questionable home remedies, escaped the epidemic with nothing to show for it but a rasping cough of Willem's. Or, they thought as much.

Around a month or two following the outbreak, Edward's father, Warren Teague, had returned to the small terraced house and remarked irascibly that there had been eight new patients committed to the hospital since Tuesday; apparently, this was an unheard of number at the asylum.

Mr. Teague worked at Saint Barr's Institution For The Mentally Unstable, and, like the inhuman, prison-like nuthouse, he was not an especially forgiving man. Ghost stories and fairytales were forbidden ("That's the beginning of the dementedness I have to deal with!"), imagination was highly discouraged; not one of his sons could bring to mind the sound of their father's laugh. One of Warren's preferred hobbies was to beat the younger children whenever he was in a disagreeable mood—that is to say, when he was in a worse mood than usual; it was also favorable to be carrying something heavy at such times. Things never got out of hand, of course, but only because of the rigid Catholic statutes that the man clung to so arrogantly—and because of Mrs. Teague. For whatever unjustifiable reason, Warren would not have dreamed of reprimanding his wife for her fancifulness, and would recourse to sitting sulkily in his weathered armchair as Helena told the younger boys of knights and mermaids and witches. There must have been some form of love between the two spouses at one point, but that must have been quite long ago, indeed. Now, there was nothing but tolerant silence from Helena, and purple-faced chagrin from her husband.

"Poor things," said Helena to her husband's complaints of his work, "Everyone's jus' scared nowadays with the sickness, I s'pose. Don' even wanna care for their own families."

"They're mad! They deserve to be locked up! They'll just pollute the rest of the community!" Warren responded. "Why, if any of _my _family went crazy, they'd be sent off sooner than you could say lunatic!"

His wife chose not to reply and returned her gaze to the knobby sock she was knitting.

Another month later, George had gone looking for his mother, hoping to win a shilling or two for housework (he had exhausted his own scant collection of coins on licorice and flowers for the cobbler's pretty daughter). "Mum?" he called, peering into the modest parlor room, "You there?"

And, in fact, she was. She occupied a mauve settee and was currently engaged in an animated conversation with what appeared to be the rocking chair opposite her. "…I know, dove," she was saying, "All your brothers and no one to talk to. I 'ad two sisters, y'know, so we could always count on each other, couldn't we? We'd always pick dandelions together. I love dandelions. But anyways, what I'd do if—"

"Mum?" asked George hesitantly, placing a hand on her shoulder, "Who're you talking to?"

"Oh, George! Didn't see you come in! Alice and I were just havin' a chat."

"An' who's Alice?" the redheaded boy inquired slowly as he sat cross-legged next to his mother.

Helena looked skeptical. "You're sister, of course!"

"I don't have a sister." George explained with faux patience, fighting against the uneasy nausea building in his stomach. He laid a hand over her unwashed fingertips. They were shaking.

"What are you talking about, love? She's right there!"

"There's no one there, Mum."

Helena blinked. Her eyes defocused and clouded with puzzlement. "Hello, George!" she chirped happily. The fifteen-year-old did not answer, but led the disoriented woman to the kitchen for a cup of hot tea.

George chose not to tell anyone of the incident.

The following evening was one of the those rare occasions in which Edward would return to the home he disliked so greatly to spend the night; typically, he would stay in one of his friends' houses, or, when the weather was agreeable, he would spread himself across the chimney-dotted rooftops. Tonight, however, he had gotten into a warring fight with Elias Murrey, and he was in need of bandages for his bleeding face.

In theory, he would have thieved a roll of gauze from the family's limited medicine cabinet and hastily darted back into the streets, but as he crept past the lightless kitchen, a hand from the shadows caught his shirt; fingernails dug into his arm, refusing to release its prize. Whipping around instinctively in alarm, he found his mother staring up at him, the faint shafts of lingering light reflecting eerily off the teardrops that dappled her cheeks. "E-Edward?" she breathed, "You're… you're back!"

"Course I am, Mum," he said, awkwardly patting her back as she hugged him tightly. He wasn't absent often enough to merit this sort of welcome, was he?

"How'd you get here?" she asked between snivels, brushing her wet face with the back of her hand.

"Just through the front door—"

"No, no, I mean, how'd you get back _here?_" Helena waved vaguely around the hall.

"Wha—"

"Well, _blimey, _Eddie! You've only been _dead_ for two weeks!"

Edward squinted and opened his mouth to retort; no words came. He pressed a finger to his parted lips, his visage warped with unalloyed bewilderment. "I've been… dead," he said dumbly. He blinked again and queried carefully, "Er, how exactly did I die?"

The stout woman raised her hands to her mouth in disbelief. "You honestly don' remember? Oh, it was awful. You caught the sickness, see—"

Something gnawed in the back of the boy's mind. "Are you sick, Mum? Did it, um, go to your head?"

She scoffed indignantly. "No, of course not! I can' get sick with all your brothers to take care of!"

And then, without any sort of warning, the delusional woman's knees buckled beneath her and she crumpled against the doorframe, screeching. Her body writhed convulsively; her eyes, wide with terror, rolled back unnaturally in her head. The mother's disquieting shrieks pierced the otherwise untroubled night air.

"GHOST! GHOST! OH, LORD ABOVE, DELIVER US!" she howled wretchedly, rocking back and forth and tearing at her dark ringlets with shuddering hands. Edward was there in a moment, striving to soothe the madwoman with comforting words of nonsense and prying her fingers from her skull, so as to prevent her from harming herself any further. He bit his lip as Helena thrashed feverishly, a horrible feeling of auguring dread building in his innards.

Screams abruptly converted to throaty sobs; she cried out that it hadn't been her fault, that she had done all that she could have, and that it had been too late to save Edward. "I—didna' mean to—It was too—late—"

Her eldest son merely enfolded the hysterical woman in his arms, aiming to restrain her flailing limbs should she be overcome with another paroxysm. Such precautions, however, proved to be unnecessary. With one final heaving bawl, the mother went limp, her head lolling comatosely against the dark-haired boy's shoulder.

_She's lost it, _Edward thought soberly, sweeping a tangled curl of hair from Helena's harrowingly peaceful face. _My mother's gone crazy. And now Dad's going to lock her up. And she's gonna die in there. _

As though the thought had summoned him, Warren Teague came stomping waspishly into the dingy hallway, his permanent expression of displeasure now even more pronounced. "What happened?" he demanded tetchily, "I heard screaming."

"I… Mum…" Edward's mind raced. He couldn't tell his father, he _couldn't_; then again, what choice did he have? Warren was sure to find out soon enough, but still—

"Hullo, Edward," piped Helena buoyantly, having only just awoken, "Have you seen your sister?"

The teenager looked anxiously between his stony-faced father and his deranged mother; he laughed uneasily, hoping to diffuse the weighty tension that hung oppressively in the air. "Oh, sure, Mum." He glanced at Warren and explained hastily, "We started to, er, we call Emily Fellings our sister now, because, um, George spends so much time with her now, and, uh—"

"What the hell are you talking about, Eddie? Your sister, Alice, of course! I need to talk to her, see, she'll want to know that you're back from the dead." Helena finished matter-of-factly.

Warren frowned, his tight lips slowly mouthing the words _back from the dead._ Edward leapt to his feet, hauling his mother upwards along with him and half-led, half-carried her toward the rickety staircase. He continued to spout unthinking phrases like, "You're always so funny, Mum," or, "Alice, isn't that the nice old dressmaker down the way?" as he went. He hurried the dazed woman to her room, insisting that she get some rest, all the while feeling the oddest sense of role-reversal. Helena was humming contentedly to herself now as her son pushed her into the bedroom and locked the door promptly behind her—succeeding in both closing her _inside_ and closing his father _outside_.

Of course, he knew that things were never going to be the same.

Though Warren never spoke of the harrowing occurrence again, Helena was restrained to the stark room behind the heavily bolted door from that night on. Whenever the younger children would ask what had happened to their mother, Warren would growl something like, "Don't you dare tell a soul." Apparently, despite his previous threats of carting her off to the institution, the man couldn't bear the thought of the embarrassment and gossip that would befall him were the local housewives to find out about the family's predicament. And so she stayed, locked away, screaming or crying or chattering contentedly about the many uses of dandelion heads throughout all hours of the day.

And weeks passed. And then months. And a perplexed Jack would tentatively ask his eldest brother what _would _happen if Mum were released—just hypothetically, of course. And Edward would have to say that he wasn't sure. And that was that.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"_No, _Jack! If you're so lonely, go take care of Mum or something!"

The child's dark eyes widened, appalled at his role model for insinuating such a caustic subject as their mother.

"Sorry, Jackie, I didn't mean it. I'm sure Mum's fine." Edward mumbled.

"It's okay. Tell Peter 'ello from me, alright?"

"Whatever you say, kid." Edward sounded annoyed, but he was smiling. Jack liked to see Edward smile—it didn't happen often, anymore.

"Bye Ed," he called as the older boy took off down the street.

The dark-haired-child watched the lanky figure grow smaller and smaller before disappearing altogether around the corner of the watchmaker's shop. He caught himself wondering whether today would be the day that his brother didn't come home—as he did every time that Edward left the house. He might be gone for only a day or two, or a week, or a month. Or maybe he'd find a job on some ship and be off to the colonies like he used to say he would, and never even think to say goodbye…

Jack sighed, bored of such melancholy thoughts. Today, he decided resolutely, was as good a day as any to do something absurd.

As it turned out, it was necessary for Edward to return home that very night—a promising date with a pretty Spanish girl had resulted in a sharp slap across the face and a significantly deflated confidence. He had anticipated being home alone with his brothers, as Warren was likely to be working late into the night. Ergo, he was more than slightly startled to be greeted by his mother at the door—his supposed-to-be-locked-away mother.

"Where've you been?" she demanded. "You've missed dinner."

Edward's mouth opened and closed like a stupid goldfish before thoughts made themselves coherent in his mind. "Mum! Wha-what are you doing out?"

"Don't you play stupid with me. You better not've been with that smelly ol' sailor man again," she chastised, fists squared on her wide hips. She let out a clipped _hey _as her son hastily pulled her through the crumbling doorway.

"Mum," he growled, desperation present in his tone, "Who let you out?"

"Cor, Edward, you let go of me this very min—"

"_Mum. _You've been locked in your room for months. You haven't been out except for washin' up. _Who_ let you _out_?"

Helena's eyes widened fearfully. The teenager prepared for her to begin convulsing or shrieking like she had so many nights ago. As soon as she had tensed, however, she sighed, shrugged indifferently, and said flatly, "Jackie did."

"Jack? My brother?"

"Yep," she replied cheerily, popping the _P. _"I told 'im I was feelin' fine, so he unlocked the door. He's a good boy."

At that moment, there was a clattering disturbance from the kitchen and a grinning George twirled into the room, his ginger hair in a terrible state of disarray. "Hell_ooo, _Edward Teague! I prob'bly I don' say it enough, but I _love _you, Eddie. Eddie, Ed, Edward, Edward, Ed_ward Teague!" _Even from the opposite end of the hallway, the elder brother could smell the lingering odor of sour two-bit alcohol. So he did only that which had to be done: Edward clouted his sibling smartly across the face.

George stumbled, apparently having been startled out of his booze-induced stupor. After he had righted himself, he mouthed with apparent difficulty, "Mum?" Then, upon noticing his brother at Helena's side—"Edward? D-did you just hit me?"

Edward was much too distraught to stomach the redhead's idiocy at the moment. "Did,"—he poked George roughly in the chest—"you,"—poke—"know,"—poke—"she was out?" Poke, poke.

"Naw, I di'n't! No one's been home except Jack!"

"Jack…" Edward wheeled around and faced his mother once more. "Where is he?"

Helena raised her doughy palms defensively and said, "Calm down love, and don't push me! Jack was tired out, a'ight? I set 'im to bed."

The two boys clambered up the rickety staircase—Edward taking the steps two at a time, while George teetered uneasily on each—and they burst through the misshapen bedroom door. A lonely kerosene lamp cast a pleasant golden glow from the stout armoire in the corner. A pile of sticky dandelions lay forgotten on the seat of a chair. Three of the four thin mattresses lay vacant and the stiff sheets were disheveled; the tidy, occupied fourth seeming all the more conspicuous. Jack's bed. A tuft of dark hair protruded from beneath the fraying quilt.

George sighed in relief, "Oi, kid, don't scare us like that. We thought Mum might'a—ah, done somethin'…" He vaulted over his and Cletus's beds and dropped down beside his youngest sibling's form.

Edward leaned quietly against the doorframe. His overactive heart rate began to slow to a more habitual beat. The knot in his throat loosened; though naturally, he would have refused it had ever been there in the first place. His self-assured mind wandered momentarily, pausing to imagine what he would have done if Jack had been hurt, had been de—

"Oh, _Lord, _Ed!" George leapt from the bed as though an electric shock had been executed to him.

"What?" The older Teague boy perched himself hastily atop the foot of the bunk. Jack was, as far as he could tell, still sleeping. "George, what is it?"

The fifteen-year-old raised a quivering, pale finger: "H-his face, Ed."

Charily taking the coarse textile between thumb and forefinger, Edward slid the bedspread from the child's face. Two eyes stared back up at him.

They were dark chocolaty eyes; eyes that laughed; eyes that did a poor job of concealing their mischievous intentions; eyes that said skeptically, _Is that your real hair, Mrs. Crimmons— _Teague eyes. They now were quite empty, those eyes. They stared unblinkingly at some imperceptible nightmare hovering somewhere about the sagging ceiling. Wide eyes. Vacant eyes. Dead eyes.

It would be difficult to say exactly how long the firstborn Teague stood there, unmoving, unfeeling. Images danced through his head without purpose or explanation. A fistful of flaking dandelions, a blonde wig, a broken nose, some bottles, a carpet of shadowy, faceless people parading about a shadowy, nameless street. Blistered lips, paralyzed in mid-scream. Lips? Jack's lips.

It was a paltry detail, to be sure, and yet it may have been the sole reason that Edward resurfaced from his musings at all. Clearly, some malignant substance had corroded the child's mouth, causing the fleshy innards of the throat to bubble and sear. It was as if the skin were a chewy cake batter, boiling in the heat of an oven.

"George," he whispered, "George, get over here."

The second Teague had curled himself into a secure ball of angular limbs, pressed stiffly against the crumbling wall. He clutched his head with his thin hands, and without looking up, replied flatly, "He's dead."

"George, come over here."

"He's dead."

"George."

"No."

"Look at his mouth."

A seemingly endless few seconds later, the redhead uncoiled himself and laboriously made his way to the bedside. Scrutinizing the corpse from a relatively safe distance, George remarked quietly, "Looks like it hurt."

"Don't say that," snapped Edward. Then, to the pale Jack, "What'd she do to you?"

"Oi! Don't you two go wakin' 'im up!"

The brothers jumped at the voice. Helena was framed in the doorway, the soft shine of the lamp illuminating her face like an eerily familiar jack-o-lantern. Light glanced jollily off a miniature glass bottle pinched between her round fingers. A thick carving knife was fixed beneath her apron ties.

Edward sidestepped between his mother and two siblings (or sibling, he supposed), advancing slowly towards her. His eyes flickered over the knife and the tiny flask. "What did you do to Jack?" he growled.

"He was tired, Edward," she insisted forcefully. "He wasn't feelin' well, alright? I set him to bed and gave 'im his medicine. Stop glaring at me, young man. I'm your mother."

The boy plucked the bottle from the woman's hand and read the yellowing label: ARSENIC—For Preservation Purposes Only—DO NOT CONSUME. Edward's stomach rolled. "Did you know what this is?"

For the most part, Helena Teague had retained her humanity in the midst of her mania—often she could have been mistaken for a dotty drunkard instead of a psychotic. However, at Edward's inquiry, all her Helena-ness was abruptly erased. A perverted, twisted character took her place. She smiled; an eldritch curl of the lip that disfigured her sallow features into a grotesque mask. Softly, balefully, she began to chant a nursery rhyme:

"_Click, clock, goes the lock,_

_Then medicine from your mummy._

_No screaming dear, they mustn't hear,_

_Now Warren is the dummy._

"_Click, clock, goes the lock,_

_I know it burns, my Jack._

_Just four more boys, then no more noise,_

_We'll have our freedom back."_

"SHUT UP!" It was George. His bony hands were clamped around his skull again.

Helena flinched at his outburst. Her dark eyes glittered in the orange glow as she drew herself up to her full height, unimpressive as it was. "Don't speak to me that way," she chastised, "I'm your _mother_."

George shifted. Shuddered. White hands released pink ears and crushed themselves into fists. "You," he snarled, "are _not _my _mother!" _He was yelling now. "My mother is _dead_! She died months ago when we locked her up. You're just the sickness—You. Are. Not. My. _Mother!" _

"TAKE YOUR MEDICINE!" Helena shrieked. "George Frederick Teague, you _listen to me! _Take your medicine, _now_!"

She shoved her hand into her apron pocket and upon finding it bereft of the poison, chose instead to make use of the steely knife fixed to her hip. The madwoman lunged blindly at her son, screeching, thrashing. Her eyes rolled back in their sockets. Her curls flew into a furious halo about her face. Stabbing and flailing, she screamed. And George, though he probably ought to have been screaming as well, was silent. Perhaps that was because he couldn't seem to remember to breathe. The gangly teenager dodged the heavy blade and, in what he would have said years later was simple self-defense, drove his mother mindlessly into the brick-laid wall.

Now, the sound of skull colliding with stone is not only highly unpleasant, but it is also, truthfully, quite loud. _Crack—_went Helena's head. _Thump—_went Helena's limp body. _Splat—_went Helena's brains. _Holy God—_went the brothers. _Holy God. _

Two Teagues were buried the following eve. There was no ceremony, no parting words. Not even so much as an epitaph on either tombstone. Warren bade a stiff goodbye to the gravedigger, a confused and puffy-eyed Cletus and Willem trailing obediently behind him. The older brothers had not been invited.

If you had been sitting in the Westgate Cemetery about one hour and eleven minutes after sundown, you might have seen two lanky figures making their way through the maze of headstones. It would have been clear that they did not want to be noticed, but then again, there wasn't anyone else in the graveyard to be noticed by. They would stop at a newly filled patch of gray soil and reverently place handfuls of yellow dandelions against each marker. If you were not short of hearing and you listened very closely, you might have heard them mumbling their mother's old nursery rhyme:

_A man of words and not of deeds_

_Is like a garden full of weeds_

_And when the weeds begin to grow _

_It's like a garden full of snow _

_And when the snow begins to fall _

_It's like a bird upon the wall _

_And when the bird away does fly _

_It's like an eagle in the sky _

_And when the sky begins to roar _

_It's like a lion at the door _

_And when the door begins to crack _

_It's like a stick across your back _

_And when your back begins to smart _

_It's like a penknife in your heart _

_And when your heart begins to bleed_

_You're dead, and dead, and dead indeed._

* * *

><p>Amazing poem there at the end, you say? Yes, well. Thank Mr. John Fletcher for that little chestnut.<br>Also, I'm afraid my poor review button is faulty. If it won't let you comment properly, I'd be oh-so-grateful if you'd just leave an anonymous review instead. That seems to fix the problem.


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